


In These Hands

by TheThirdTimesACharm



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anti-Fuctionism, M/M, Mech Preg, Political Drama, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 181,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTimesACharm/pseuds/TheThirdTimesACharm
Summary: For rejecting a Senator’s advances Ratchet finds himself stripped of his job, his home, and his titles. Cast into the lowest regions of Cybertron society the once-medic becomes entwined with a rising anti-fuctionist movement, tangled further with their gladiatorial leader.MegatronXRatchet





	1. The Sentence

**Author's Note:**

> So, there were 2 Megs/Ratch stories swimming around in my head, and this one won out because: reasons (cough, cough, I like mech preg, cough).  
> Also, I want to stress that I will be making up shit as I go along. I'm not too well versed in certain continuities (aside from the G1 cartoon, hur, hur), but I've dabbled in a few 'verses before. I do try to keep characters within their bounds, but sometimes they escape me. So, sorry in advance if anyone seems OOC.  
> This fic is heavily based off G1 with some major/minor elements of the IDW 'verse and maybe some Alignment 'verse. So, yes, it's kind of a whole universe by itself.
> 
> Please enjoy, and tell me what you think! I've got big plans for this fic, but I'm not sure if I'll continue it if no one cares for it.

“And that’s a wrap. One, two, three, four, five sparklings all accounted for and thriving.” Ratchet was in the process of packing away his equipment. His smile a reflection of the carrier’s features. “At this rate we’ll be seeing the litter within the next meta-cycle. Senator Proteus should be proud.”

The femme carrier; she was beautiful. Her frame cascaded in various shades of emerald with accents of clean beige, and her optics a dazzling shade of cerulean. An individual most expected to find occupying a lord’s estate.

At Ratchet’s comment her smile seemed to dwindle. She sat up on the lounge bench where the medic had taken the opportunity to examine her in comfort, and didn’t do much to hide her bordering negativity.

“Yes, he should. It would be nice if he showed it by a few more visits than what I receive.” There was something that sounded like a sigh emitting from her vocal processors. She wasn’t the first forlorn carrier Ratchet has gotten to know.

“Well, with all his responsibilities, I wouldn’t blame him for being kept busy,” Ratchet reasoned. Even so he watched her optics roll.

“Held up at the Grand Imperium I can understand, but here? In his own home? It’s an absolute travesty.” Even as she pouted, she lost no aspect of her radiant beauty. “And I’m certainly not the only one who misses his presence.” She didn’t explain further because there was no need to. Ratchet knew of her position as well as the others in the concubinage. What he couldn’t work his internal processors around was why the Senators would collect so many and then leave the ‘bots starved of proper interaction. It just seemed like a waste to him, but not something he could currently oppose seeing as this concubinage’s need of a more attentive doctor is what landed him this coveted and high-ranking job in the first place.

The silence from the femme’s troubled position faded quickly, dispersed by her laugh as brighter optics shown on her medic. “There I go again, laying the weight of my menial troubles on you like you’re my psychotherapist. Oh, Ratchet, you’ve become such a dear companion I just can’t seem to stop myself.”

Ratchet’s smile returned with hers. He waved off her previous bout as he often did. “You know it’s no trouble by me, Mistress Greenlight.” At that the femme motioned a cringe.

“Would you drop the ‘mistress’ title? Primus, it sounds so scandalous at times. I mean, sure, I’m a senator’s lover currently living in his household and carrying his litter but ‘mistress’ just sounds so . . . so . . .” There was a pause for processing before Greenlight clapped her hands and threw her helm back in a laugh. “Yes, I guess that title about sums my entire predisposition up.”

Greenlight was always one to get herself in and out of moods quite fast. She was an absolute privilege to get to know.

Taking up his medical kit, Ratchet moved toward the door. “I best be going. Got to make sure the report finds its way to Senator Proteus’ desk by midday or else I’m out of a job.” Greenlight only tsked behind him, and when he turned to have one last glance at her, he watched the femme wave her hand dismissively. Standing then, coming toward him, mindful of each step with premediated balance for the protoforms developing inside her.

“You’re my doctor, not his,” she said. One hand patted his white shoulder while her other rubbed over her growing chassis. “You’re out a job when I say you are.” She chuckled, the fingers over her chassis dancing on shifting plates. “And that time isn’t going to be anytime soon by the looks of it.”

Ratchet nodded, easing into Greenlight’s assurances. “Well, then expect to see me next deca-cycle for our usual checkup. But, I’ll be running by tomorrow for Datazone’s examination. If you need me to mix a formula for erratic energon imbalances or further proto-nutrients at the facility it would be opportune to make the order.”

There was a silent process before inspiration lit Greenlight’s optics, and the smile on her face became more savvy than gentle. “How about you mix up some hydro-cod 3 and two bars of energon sod, and then deliver it to the parlor after your checkup with Datazone? Say a quarter before midday?”

Ratchet only took a moment to process her order before gawking at her with curiosity. “But that’s just a formula for—”

“Energon fizz,” Greenlight answered. “A harmless drink for a carrier, but a fun beverage to have with friends. How about I treat you to brunch?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s necessary.” And it was very unprofessional. However, Ratchet’s response seemed to spark a stance in the femme standing before him. When her hands came to her hips, her optics in turn narrowed.

“Here I am, just wanting to dine with a friend, but you’re making yourself difficult. I could just order you to, you know? But I’d rather have frivolous conversation with a willing companion, not my doctor.”

Ratchet found himself laughing at her lofty endeavors. “Limiting my options, are we? You would have made an excellent tradesmech.”

“A procured talent,” she replied in dramatic manner. Her smile returned, she patted Ratchet’s arm on her motion to turn and move back into the concubinage wing. “A quarter to midday. Tomorrow!”

There was a contentment Ratchet felt in his services to Senator Proteus’ personal companions. Aside from Greenlight, the others were well-mannered and pleasant sparks. And after mingling with other senator medical officers on the few times that he could, found the troubles and strict custom protocols many had to deal with. Not one to complain, Ratchet enjoyed the simplicity within Senator Proteus’ household, the final duty of which remained basic: after checkups, key in a report, deliver said report to Senator Proteus’ office, and leave report on desk.

With or without the Senator present, Ratchet found no qualms with him. When present, the ‘bot was often too engrossed with take-home projects to acknowledge the medibot’s presence, and with Ratchet’s explicit instructions, he found no issues in succeeding in enacting the precise lay of orders.

Proteus was present today. A sight as often as his absence. Besides orientation as well as a few minor orders, Ratchet and he had not really exchanged proper verbal conversation. Not that Ratchet minded.

In his contentment with his job, so too was he content to ignore the silence. Intending to do just that as he laid down the report on Proteus’ desk and turned to leave.

“Already done for today, Ratchet?”

The medic turned and found the Senator staring at him over his work.

Ratchet nodded, turning back to give proper attention. “Yes sir. Mistress Greenlight showed balanced levels and the sparklings’ pulses were all strong and distinct. There was a minor worry about one last deca-cycle, the detail of which was recorded in the report I left, but recent examination provided enough information to prove that there’s no need to further worry. The full list of details are cataloged in the current report.”

Proteus laid down his work, folding his hands. He nodded. “Yes, yes, that does seem good. I can’t imagine what Greenlight must have felt in the wait.”

“I’m sure if you go to her, she would gladly let you know.”

The short-lived chuckle that sounded out of Proteus sounded light in all fairness, but Ratchet had studied long and hard to recognize abnormalities in vocal excursions, and he couldn’t dismiss the signal that ran through his processor. Proteus moved, shaking his helm with humorous features as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“I tend to keep myself away from all of that for a reason.” He stood before Ratchet, a larger frame with a friendly face, but a less-than friendly field. Unusual, but summed up to his high-ranking position and Ratchet’s much lower chain. “Imbalanced levels and all that.”

While that reasoning has been used to excuse interaction from various sires through the ages, Ratchet was still a firm believer in parental intimacy. After all it is scientifically proven to correct improper imbalances and dwindle stressed circuits much faster and easier than concocted artificial remedies. Not that Ratchet believed his employer would take any such advice though.

“She does seem to like you.”

Ratchet pulled himself out of his processing core and returned to the uncomfortable position of being underneath Proteus’ stare.

“They all do,” Proteus carried on. “I admit I was at first reluctant to find new help after all the time old Centas had served me and my house, but, well, his retirement couldn’t be helped. It was actually my own personal medic who suggested hiring one of the fresh faces that came out of the academy, and I’m very pleased I went along with his advice. You’re turning out to be a real hidden gem, Ratchet.”

Flattery, it never really got old. “I appreciate your approval, Senator Proteus. But I’m the one who’s honored to be serving your household.” Ratchet inclined his form politely.

“Honored? Come now, Ratchet. I think it should be the other way around. Top one percent in your class, some of the highest scores in physical, oratory, and logic exams the Dean’s ever recorded, and the accolades that your graduating thesis mounted is extraordinary.”

It’s really no wonder Proteus was one of the most influential Senators. He certainly had a way with words. Words that had Ratchet’s circuits twisting and preening.

“The way you handle my mistresses deserves commendation as well. Though, I suspect it’s because you can relate to them so well.” With his smile converting from prideful to one more bordering humor, Ratchet took a moment to process the meaning in his wording. Oh.

Ratchet nodded. “Ah, well, aside from the rigorous studies and EX hours we are put through, yes, you could say medibots have deeper connections to carriers. Kin only in that we have gestational chambers.”

Proteus’ smile was growing away from jesting humor. “A clever ploy on the academy’s part, no doubt.”

Ratchet expected no less an assumption. It’s many’s first guess to the odd reasoning. Of course he’d gladly correct the ignorance, as he done many times before. “Ploy? No, regulatory. Though I’m hard-pressed to call it that anymore. Tradition is what it is, and has been since the First War. The population was so decimated that medibots had to carry to repair the populace.” There was a pause, a moment of processing. “Say, do you ever think the Senate would take a look at that and possibly wave that old law? Given the times, it’s quite unnecessary.”

“Perhaps, but . . .” Proteus came to confuse Ratchet when he rose his hand and let his digits glide down the medic’s face. “You never know when you’ll need them.”

The immediate reaction was for Ratchet to flinch back, optics wide and bright. “Lord Proteus?” But he didn’t take another step back, even as the Senator pressed closer, all but overshadowing the smaller mech.

“With such young handsome faces, why, I think it’d be a shame to waste resources.” Proteus has had too long to practice his will in his words. Be it as it may that he is able to sway the masses, Ratchet didn’t find himself under the same influence. This fact coming to light as he took a further step back, trying to ease himself out of the Senator’s field.

“My lord!” Ratchet was gawking, at an absolute loss of any proper responses to the very improper suggestive intonations. Despite his reaction as well as cleared stance in the matter, Proteus didn’t look at all shamed, nor dissuaded for that matter.

“No? Too large a scale? Fine, let’s start with smaller.” There was absolutely no hesitation when Proteus pressed forward again, as well as a lack in concern for the smaller mech pushing against his chassis, wiggling within his grasp.

Eventually, Ratchet had to hold his offense from the Senator’s groping hands and focus on pushing his imposing helm. After a particularly hard push back, Ratchet managed to untangle himself from Proteus’ arms and back himself against the office door, ready to evade the entire room.

The way Proteus looked at him made the medic’s core hiccup. Confusion laced his moving features as if he were some child staring at a malfunctioning helio-hamster. There wasn’t an ounce of consideration for the affiliated.

“You’re resisting me?” Again, Proteus wore his confusion as if it was natural. As if Ratchet should feel the same.

“I . . .” Ratchet’s processor over-performed. What was he doing? What was Proteus doing? “I was hired as household medic, I . . .” His visual line met Proteus’, able to hold. “It’s not my duty.”

Proteus was still for a moment. Ratchet could sense his processors churning. Perhaps he’d come to realize just what he was doing, what he was asking for. There was also a need to examine the senator’s energon levels. Ratchet knew he could afford the stuff to set a ‘bot out of his processors.

“Oh.” Proteus rolled his optics, shaking his helm. His stance lacking any form of tension. “Is that what’s troubling you?” Ratchet’s optics faded a little. What’s _troubling_ him? How could Proteus carry on so nonchalantly? “Most of my household were ‘bots serving other functions until I brought them in. There’s no need to worry.”

Proteus made to come closer again, but Ratchet pressed the door’s panel and the frame slid open, an exit ready. Proteus halted, glancing once at the opened doors and then back to the rigid medibot.

“I-I’m not . . . I’m a doctor,” Ratchet continually pressed. “I just want to perform my duties.”

“You can,” Proteus said as if reasoning with an opposing and indecisive opponent. “You can do whatever you want, have whatever you want. I can do that, Ratchet, I can get you anything you want. You want a clinic named after you? Done. You want the latest upgrades? I’ll secure them. You want a mansion in Crystal City? Just tell me where to buy.” He reached out, his arms long enough to brush down Ratchet’s. “Young, bright, opportunistic. As exceptional as you were in the academy so are you a beauty in your own. We could produce ideal sparklings.” Proteus’ hands wrapped around Ratchet’s, bringing them up he rubbed his lips against the rouge knuckle joints. An incentive.

“I . . .” Ratchet didn’t like looking into Proteus’ optics. He had a powerful gaze, more so now than ever. “I don’t want that, any of it.” He wasn’t that opportunistic contrary to belief.

“But I do.” Proteus’ vocal processors were soft, humming in hypnotic fashion. Almost comforting. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

Ratchet’s optics became brighter now. This time he met the senator’s swaying glow. “Just let me do my job.”

The tender hold was released. Proteus looked displeased. “Why are you rejecting me? Have I not offered you enough?”

Ratchet tried to steel himself. Despite it all he couldn’t help but feel inferior in the field of someone like Proteus’. For good reason.

“It’s not that. I don’t want anything you have to give. I . . . I’m fine with just being the house medic.”

“Such low standards, doctor,” Proteus chided. “You disappoint me.”

Inclining his helm, Ratchet tried to hold onto the fleeting respect for the mech before him, if only out of functional status. “I apologize. Perhaps you’ll desire another medibot.” And then Proteus laughed. Just _laughed_.

“You think it’s that easy? You think you can just run from me?” When the laughter died down, Ratchet thought he detected a shift in the color panel of Proteus’ optics. A darker shade. “Oh, doctor, you’ll find that assumption quite faulty, and an option you’ll come to regret.”

Ratchet kept his silence. He didn’t want to agitate things further.

“You are dismissed for the day,” Proteus finally commanded, turning. He returned to his desk and took a seat, taking up his work and forgetting about the lingering presence as he had before.

Ratchet didn’t waste another moment to make his departure.

. . .

“The frag?” Thunderclash; an honest spark, honest face, and honest mouth. After Ratchet had conferred the simplified and slightly edited version of the incident to his compatriots and colleagues, the largest of the group made his opinion on the matter known fast and first. “Is that even legal?”

Ratchet sounded a sigh. He rotated his shoulder cogs and found solace in the silence.  

“Hey, hey, what’s that old saying? If it’s illegal for us it’s legal for the Senate.” Despite Jazz’s obvious attempt to lighten the dampening atmosphere, Ratchet and the others remained unmoved and unlifted.

“No, can’t say that it’s illegal, per say,” Pharma spoke up, arms crossed, face scrunched. “It’s just rude. Sounds to me that ol’ Senator Proteus just wants to take advantage of medical resources.”

Ratchet’s groan was loud and he eagerly pushed his face into his hands. “What am I going to do? It’s just so uncomfortable returning to his estate for the checkups.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. It represented comfort and support, as well as pending protection if need be. It also represented his dear friend Orion Pax.

“Ratchet, have you thought about resigning?” Orion’s vocals were gentle and assuring, sounding himself as someone who would stand behind any decision Ratchet decided to make. And Ratchet knew he would.

“Of course I have,” Ratchet replied, moving his hands away and shaking his helm. “But it’s not like I’ve been discharged.” He hadn’t. If there were any further qualms, Ratchet was certain Senator Proteus wouldn’t hesitate to dishonorably discharge him, but that day never came, and seemed like it never would, which has left the medibot in stressed posture for deca-cycles. “Primus, I don’t know. This position was my chance to make a name for myself, as a _doctor_ , but what I’m being asked for is just something I . . . I don’t know what to do. Believe me any suggestions will have been already processed and simulated.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Thunderclash spoke up. “If it were me I’d resign in a spark pulse. Less exposure, sure, but less harassment.”

“Yeah, and if it were you, Thunderclash, Senator Proteus wouldn’t be making the moves. You ain’t as cute as Ratch.” With a sharp grin, Jazz reached out and pinched the medic’s cheek, snapping him out of his moping despair in time for him to swatch his hands away.

“All humor aside,” Orion gave Jazz a look before zoning in on his friend seated next to him. “If he tries anything else, don’t be afraid to report it.”

Jazz chuckled again. “That’ll be the day; when a senator gets locked behind bars.” He nudges his elbow into Orion’s chassis. “You gonna be the one to do the honors?”

Orion preened, keeping his posture strong and straight. “I would if given the chance.”

“Quite optimistic for a fledgling enforcer,” Thunderclash commented. He meant well, he was just blatantly honest, like Ratchet.

“Oh, I’m not afraid of him,” Ratchet said despite the tremors he could still phatomly feel at the thought of that mech overbearing him. “More so I’m afraid of what someone with that kind of power could do to the people I cherish most if I cross him again.”

His reasoning pulled a sobriety over his companions. And over himself too. A likely explanation why he stayed in employment of the senator when he shouldn’t have.

. . .

It had been four deca-cycles since Ratchet had confided his troubles in his friends when he began to notice something out of place. Greenlight began discreetly suffering from processor glitches, not necessarily uncommon for any regular ‘bot, carrying or not. She refused suggested remedies and persevered through them through sheer will. Something Ratchet expected no less of her.

It was the other ‘subtle’ changes that began to alert Ratchet. Nervous manuals began to shut off, and more than once Ratchet had caught objects Greenlight had been dropping during random intervals. Once more she brushed it off, but kindly accepted Ratchet’s repairs. After all, they didn’t take long to fix.

And then there was the discoloring. Ratchet wished he would have logged it as a priority sooner. But carriers were expected to lose some form of pigmentation if not properly in-taking nourishment. Given that Greenlight should have access to the most basic of fuel, Ratchet equated the rapid loss to the number of sparklings she was carrying. The larger the amount, the quicker the carrier was drained. Again, if not properly replacing lost reserves.

In the end, Ratchet summed it up to fatigue and alignment vertigo. More or less common ailments among carriers. And so Ratchet concocted a formula high on electrolytes for fuel, balanced with mid-energon to ease the processor upsets she had been experiencing.

“This one will definitely do the trick, Greenlight,” Ratchet announced as he moved through the estate and into the concubinage wing. Greenlight was lounging on the bench, looking the same as she had the previous day.

Upon coming closer Ratchet’s core began to slow. She was less pigmented by far than when he had previously scanned her. And her slow movement only called for reason to worry.

Putting down the formula, Ratchet raced to her side. Her optics were dim and her form shaking. She looked at him, a hand reaching out and grasping him as hard as she could, though, to the medibot it felt like faint squeezes.

“R-Ratch—et, Ratch . . .” There was static in her vocals and from the groans and moans, Ratchet estimated the heightened levels of her pain.

“I’ve got to get you to the facility!” Ratchet bent down to take her up into his arms, but she began crying out when he had and reluctantly he laid her bad down. Still, she clung to him, as if trying to garner his attention.

“P-Ple—ease, my . . . my chil—dren. Ratchet . . .” There was fear in her dimmed optics, and by the continual fading color, Ratchet shown it in his own. She was extinguishing.

It wasn’t the proper place nor time to examine the exact reason. And in that moment Greenlight was the one who remembered the priority. The sparklings.

Aside from Greenlight’s moans of pain, Ratchet didn’t have a hard time removing her chassis. The moment the last hinge was unlatched the groans and moans stopped. There wasn’t even so much as a tremor.

“Greenlight?” Ratchet turned back to her helm, his digits touching her faceplates. “Greenlight?” A full discoloration, no optic glow. She was offline.

Ratchet found himself in sudden shock as his internal processor tried to make sense of it all. When it couldn’t, when Ratchet forced himself to come to that conclusion he remembered his objective and quickly began searing through panel and circuitry to pull out the protoform pods.

“Primus!” Ratchet had pulled out four discolored pods, no signal of online activity whatsoever. It was the fifth pod that had any semblance of color, albeit nearing greys and blacks. Pressing his hands into the seams, Ratchet forced a transformation, and with his guidance the sparkling conceded. Ratchet was able to see its chassis rise up with a dim glow, and optics brighten only a fraction before the light dispersed and the sparkling lay limp in his hands.

Time seemed to stand still. Ratchet had already recorded the offline intervals, but his internal clock didn’t seem to want to move past those numbers. It wasn’t until his audials picked up on the sound of someone shouting that he realized the world still spun.

“Greenlight!” It was Senator Proteus. He looked mortified, his line of sight zoned in on the lifeless form of his concubine as well as the four pods and limp sparkling still cradled in Ratchet’s arms. He looked at Ratchet then, horror flashing over his features.

Ratchet didn’t recall Proteus hailing for his physician. It was only when the medic came and took the offline sparkling from Ratchet’s arms that he realized he was being pushed aside so the other could examine the shells.

“What happened?” Proteus’ question was more than demanding, and Ratchet wasn’t certain if he was speaking to him or his personal physician. So he kept his silence, hoping that the other medibot could succeed where he had failed to determine.

It was when the medibot answered, “Depleters,” that Ratchet’s proper functions began processing at regular capacity. Depleters? Those were used for addicts and anibots to purge their systems of the harmful chemicals taken in. They were harmless to others unless taken for a long time.

No.

Proteus’ optics were on Ratchet. Narrowed and zoned. A shade darker, like before. “Search him.”

It wasn’t just Proteus’ medic that had their hands on Ratchet, but three of his personal guards as well. They took his tools, his chemicals, and even the casings. It was from their protective custody that they examined the confiscated items. And it was there they charged him.

“Here.” Proteus’ medibot approached the senator and held out the container full of Greenlight’s formula Ratchet had mixed the night before. “There’s a lacing of depleters.”

“What?” That was when the guards closed in around him and made certain he wouldn’t move another inch. “No! There were no such things in there. Mid-energon and electrolytes is all that is in there.”

“Then why don’t you examine it for yourself, medic?” Proteus’ physician was waving the vile in front of Ratchet, and taking a quick scan, to Ratchet’s horror, detected an amount of depleters. It was a harmless amount, but in the current state an incriminating piece.

“No.” Ratchet shook his helm. “No, that wasn’t in there. I swear it!”

“Depleters, they’re harmless, but after occasional in-take can prove fatal, especially to carriers,” the medic informed Proteus.

Proteus was quiet, processing the situation and everything he’d been given. When he looked to Ratchet there was further silence. And then, “Why? Why would you do this to me, Ratchet?”

Ratchet’s optics brightened. “No, I didn’t, you have to believe me.” The silence remained, Proteus looked genuinely upset and grief-stricken, but then Ratchet began to recall his threat and warning. No, he wouldn’t. Not because of that. Would he?

“I don’t know what to believe right now.” Proteus turned away, moving toward Greenlight’s shell and those of their offspring. “Take him away.”

“What?” The guards dug their digits into Ratchet’s plating, and as they tugged and dragged, Ratchet found himself struggling to properly move. “No! I’m innocent, I didn’t—I didn’t do this. Please!”

No one turned to his cries except the walls of the cell he was thrown into.

. . .

Unless it was lawfully authorized, within the realm of gladiatorial guidelines, or during war, it was illegal to offline a Cybertronian. And on the account said Cybertronian was a sparkling, the crime would receive a more threatening punishment. On the account said sparkling was a senator’s offspring, well, the trial, the judging, and the sentence would be broadcast publically.

Not minding the hysteria of his situation, there was a curiosity in the back of Ratchet’s mainframe wondering which of his friends found out first. In the present, they were crowding the row of bars, kept at a distance at the insistence of the stationed guards.

“Primus, Ratchet! Did you really do it?” Jazz’s visor was bright and he was the one pacing and back and forth the most, maneuvering around his just as frantic friends.

“It’s all over the broadcast channels,” Pharma let out. “Every Primus-damned patient was tuned in. Oh, the things they began to say!”

“Damnit, Ratchet, if you would have just waited I would have helped.” One could laugh at Thunderclash’s honest words, but Ratchet just wanted to roll over with grief.

“Will you idiots shut up!?” Ratchet’s vocals had been acting up since he was locked inside the cell, but now seeing his friends, he couldn’t help but just want to scream. “This room is monitored. Primus knows what would happen if they think you’re accomplices!” That earned him only momentary silence.

“So, did you do it?” Jazz wasn’t the only one who wanted to know.

Ratchet wanted to rip his own helm off. “NO! I keep telling them the same as I’m telling you.” The grief was sizzling again and Ratchet felt the urge to hunch over, but he stood tall, for his friends.

“I’ve read the details; they’re blaming it on system poisoning” Pharma spoke. “That’s preposterous, because I know Ratchet. There are a lot more ways he’d be able to do it AND get away with it.”

“Pharma!” Ratchet groaned. The misplaced flattery was not appreciated.

“Thought you should know they’ve called in Remedy,” Thunderclash said. The announcement of which gave Ratchet’s frame an ethereal shake.

“Remedy, but why?” Ratchet couldn’t possibly understand why the old Dean of the Medical Ward was being summoned.

“A question of integrity, no doubt,” Thunderclash said.

“If that’s what they want, so be it.” Pharma didn’t look half as worried as Ratchet felt. “Remedy absolutely adored you, Ratchet. There isn’t a chance he could be used to defame you.”

The support was appreciated. But he was one face short.

“Where’s Orion?” Ratchet figured he’d fall in with the rest of them.

“Talking to the investigators,” Jazz answered. Ratchet nodded, he should have assumed so.

“The investigators.” Thunderclash’s voice was low, a pitch of irritation laced within the electronic frequency. “As ineffective as they oft are, I wouldn’t expect much from them.”

“Yes, but Orion is persistent, and where they lack he’ll pick up,” Pharma reasoned.

“Of course he would,” Thunderclash agreed. “I’m not questioning his ethic, but he’ll only be able to do so much. This case is governmental, I’m afraid. If we’re lucky, they’ll give the investigators enough time to properly analyze the evidence. But cases like these are infamous for getting haphazardly and prematurely pushed.” He let out heavy vocal sounds. “I, for one, don’t intend to just stand around. I’m going to speak with Remedy, see if I can ensure no one tampers with his statement.”

Even in the situation he was in, Ratchet found himself smiling at his friend and his resolve. “Thank you, Thunderclash.”

“You can thank me properly when you’re out of there.” Thunderclash motioned to the decrepit piece of architecture Ratchet was secured in.

“Well, if you’re going to be doing that then I’m going to run through the facility’s logs,” Pharma said. “I’ll be sure to look into every ‘bot who purchased depleter chemicals in the last vorn if I have to.”

“And I’ll be running by Orion for the investigative updates,” Jazz announced. “You just hang tight, Ratch, you’ll be out of there in no time.”

Ratchet truly was grateful for his friends, absolutely amongst the fortunate to call them such. He cherished their encouragement, perspectives, and loyalty. Their determination to hold on for him warmed his cooling core. However, the rest of the judicial branches did not share in their same passion for proper assessment.

The official trial took place but one mega-cycle since Ratchet’s incarceration. He was provided with a state lawyer, a rough preparation for what to expect in the trial, and allowed to provide a list of individuals to represent his character. Of course he was informed said list could be edited by the court if proven to be inadequate.

The last preparation made was a vocal module, one he was assured was common protocol for every representative.

“To keep libel at a constrained level,” the engineer had told Ratchet after testing its efficiently. A simple controlled panel press completely disabled Ratchet’s vocal processors. His mouth could be moving, but no frequencies would be heard. And another simple press returned it.

His nerves were shot when he entered the courtroom. The crowds that had gathered were enough to fill stadiums. Before him sat the judge, and behind the ‘bot sat the entirety of the Senate.

Ratchet could feel the monitor lenses on him, recording every movement, every astro-second that dragged on like stellar-cycles. But it wasn’t as bad as the optics, the array of multicolored lights zoning in on him, looking at him as if he were some war criminal, some planetary beast that had demolished the entire state of Polyhex. It all rattled his frame and cooled his core.

“Dean Remedy, how would you best describe your once-student?” All optics were on the medibot now. He stood in the questioning booth. He looked comfortable and in no part as stressed as Ratchet’s system messages warned.

“A bright young mech. He was always eager to learn. His innovations bordered creativity, but fell within the lines of ingenuity. A genius in his own right. I always assumed he would one day take over my office.” Remedy spoke. All kind words, and phrases Ratchet had heard from him before.

“Dean Remedy, could you elaborate on your ‘innovations’ statement?”

Remedy looked as confused as Ratchet. “Well, Ratchet at times sidestepped usual medical protocols to find a quicker and more effective solution. None of which were harmful. His endeavors were recorded and are being currently debated amongst the directors”

“And would you describe your past student as ambitious?”

Remedy nodded. “Why, of course. He often spoke about the opportunities to work within governmental factions. The CMO always being a goal the moment he graduated. Not much different from other students’ ambitions, but Ratchet was the only one to discredit our current CMO’s ethics.” Remedy’s laugh following was lighthearted, but the phrases quoted before, without background, were obviously and suspiciously incriminating.

“We thank you for your cooperation, Dean Remedy. You are dismissed.”

The only individual allowed to take the stand under Ratchet’s suggestion was Thunderclash, and even then the questions were redundant and shallow. Ratchet could see the frustration alighting his friend’s features over the lack of detail, but they knew who was really in charge of the procedure that day. And that there was nothing either of them could do to change the fixed outcome.

Among the last questioned were members of Senator Proteus’ household: a few of his staff, guards, and concubines. His medical physician was one of the last. But, it was Proteus’ statements that spurred Ratchet’s circuit coils.

“I was only following the advice of my physician. When I hired Ratchet I didn’t know much about him, and from the scores of his time at the Academy, I assumed I was getting what my concubinage needed. Greenlight . . .” He paused, rubbing his lips, pouring grief into his features and further words. “It was our first litter, and I wanted what was best for her and our sparklings. I can’t really tell you what went wrong, but since then I am struck with internal error, trying to understand what I did to have this done to me.” He then looked toward Ratchet. The grief floating in his optics looked genuine, even in the lenses of monitors. “Why, Ratchet? Couldn’t it have been me and not . . . not Greenlight . . .” He bowed his helm, the sympathy of the courtroom won.

Ratchet was the last on stand. There were no questions for him, but he was allowed a final statement. For some time he just stood there, unsure of what to say, what was right to say, or proper. Or what he was even allowed to voice.

His optics searched the room and found his friends, clutching the railing of the benches they were seated on. Orion, Pharma, Jazz, and Thunderclash. He wondered if he’d ever see them again after today.

“I . . .” Ratchet looked toward the judge, toward the present Senate, and then toward the population. “I was forged, predestined to become a medibot.” He was still a Junior Medic, fresh out of the academy. The flashes of his time there really were just cycles ago. “I studied long and hard to fulfill my role. I wanted . . .” He looks past the judge and toward the Senate. “I wanted to be that cog fitting properly in the grand machine. Ambitions? What young ‘bot doesn’t have them? After graduation I fell back in line. When I was hired under Senator Proteus’ household all I wanted to do was submit to my duties and serve to my best abilities.” He looked toward Proteus and right then found no sign of sympathy, no sign of grief. Ratchet only stared into oblivion. Something the senator wanted.

Turning his gaze down, Ratchet looked for further words. Further statements that wouldn’t bury him further than he was going to be, that would possibly spare him from the fate racked against him. He looked toward his friends one last time, and it was Orion’s stern and supportive stare that riled Ratchet’s core into a furnace.

“Fine.” Ratchet’s optics were brighter, zoned in toward the judge and those seated behind. “You want to make an example of me? So be it! But how many more can you do this to until the consequences come back? I did my part, I submitted to my function. It’s you, all of you that don’t adhere to the laws put down. It’s you—” Ratchet pointed toward Proteus. “You who’ve bended and twisted customs until they suit your tastes. It’s you who did this because I rejected you, and now I’m the one who has to feel the scorn of injustice so that you can continue to sit there and stare as I’m pushed back, down so far that I’ll become nothing but a memory, if even that. But you won’t stop at me, will you? You’ll do the same to unfortunate sparks in the future over and over and over again. If I’m to be an example, fine! Then let me be the last!” Ratchet felt his frame shaking. Logs of Greenlight’s kindness, beauty, and smile ran through his processor. He’d never see her again, all because he stepped on a senator’s pride. He couldn’t be more disgusted than he was then.

The silence wasn’t long. Murmurs from the crowds began to arise before the judge held up a familiar control, tapping it. “There is no place for libel in my courtroom.”

The only official sound Ratchet made after the vocal correction modules were switched back was a gasp. None of it? Had the courtroom heard none of what he said?

“After this long and tedious session, and the analysis of the evidence, I regret to inform you, Junior Medical Officer Ratchet, that you have been found guilty of everything you deny. You have been found guilty of offlining Senator Proteus’ concubine Mistress Greenlight via system poisoning, in consequence her entire litter extinguished. The punishment for an offline is mirrored. The court moves to enact justice.”

That’s when Ratchet’s resolve fell apart. The crowd’s banter rose, some in opposition, but most in support for the verdict. They were not silenced until Senator Proteus, himself, stood up.

“Wait!” All visuals zoned into him. Even the fellow Senators looked at him curiously. His features once again laced with grief. “I have experienced enough death and desire no more. Keep him online, let him suffer with the consequences and reparations of what he’s done.”

“Lord Proteus, is this truly your desire?” The judge, as well as the crowd, looked on with wide and bright optics.

“My desire?” Proteus shifted. Where grief overbore his frame one moment, elegance and finesse seeped out of him the next. “My desire is to hold my mistress again and watch our litter grow. It’s been my only desire, but now I’ll never get to experience that.” He looks to Ratchet. “You think you can run? You think that by offlining I’ll forget about you and what you’ve done, that Cybertron will forget?” He began shaking his helm. “No, I want everyone to remember. I want you to remember, but I never want to see you in my city again.”

“Then we move for empurata,” Senator Decimus motioned. The other Senators nodding in agreement.

“No.” It was Proteus again. “I want everyone to remember his face, his make and model. I want his titles stripped, his accolades redacted, his equipment confiscated, his home demolished, and his name stricken from every record. I want Iacon to forget him, but I want its people to remember.”

An enemy of Cybertron, that’s what Ratchet felt like as he was dragged from the court. Outside the crowds screamed for his extermination. They threw things at him, and spat words of hate. They called him a sparkling killer and shouted for the destruction of his own forger. Even in all that, it wasn’t what began to make Ratchet fall apart from the inside out.

In front of the Academy the screaming crowds and recording monitors watched as a remorseful looking Remedy took away Ratchet’s chevron and scraped off the medical office sigils on his shoulders. Remedy was kind in disassembling the surgical equipment. The only thing Ratchet was able to keep from the department was the gestational chamber, and that reason was no doubt because it would take a fully prepped surgery to remove, and the gathered crowds were pressing them for time.

There was a good-bye in Remedy’s gaze. There was disappointment as well, but Ratchet was in no position to try and dissuade it. Instead, he held his silence and let his escort move him along, toward Iacon’s borders.

At the border stood the Elite Guard, the senators, and the judge. Surrounded by avid ‘bots. But at least Ratchet could see his wide-opticed friends, their faces cast in wretched despair.

“You are hereby banished from the city of Iacon. If any attempts should be made to return, lethal action will be taken. Furthermore your designation, make, model, and serial number has been blacklisted, forbidding you from seeking employment in outside medical or scientific fields.”

After the sentence was stated, the guards pushed Ratchet, an order to march out of the borders on his own. He did, and it was a shame he couldn’t process the vocals of his friends over the voluminous waves of the ravenous crowds. But he didn’t look back at them no matter how much he wanted to, at least one last time. He didn’t want to feed the crowds with scapegoats for their fabricated and misguided aggressions.

The last ‘bot that he passed was Proteus himself. Ratchet wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of any sort of acknowledgement, and so he kept moving, that was until a low frequency came from the mech, just low enough for Ratchet’s sensors to pick up.

“I had warned you, Ratchet. Perhaps your time away will give you ample opportunities to reflect on your poor strategies.” There was a pause in movement, and Ratchet actually looked at the bastard. The grief was gone, the anguish nonexistent. He was smiling at Ratchet, his optics a dark glow. “I’m willing to wait. Until then.”

Medibots were programmed to do everything within their systemic capabilities to preserve life. Ratchet was no different. However, right then and there, even against the warning signals flashing across his processor, he wanted to wrap his hands around the senator’s vertebrae cables and cut the entire flow. This mech was the true monster there.

“Keep moving,” a guard voiced, even giving Ratchet a nudge with his lance.

“Yeah! Get out of our city, monster!”

“Leave! Never come back!”

“Get off Cybertron!”

The crowds riled again, and Ratchet forced himself to push the scenarios of executing Senator Proteus away. Besides, hearing the entire populace cheer the moment he stepped out of city bounds of a state he’d come to call home and cherish hurt him more than any threat that senator could say.


	2. Consequence

Not in Tarn, not in Vos, nor any establishment around was Ratchet safe to transverse into. Even the sub levels of the cities were too familiar with Ratchet and his convictions. He had to journey further.

The aspect of leaving Cybertron sounded all too appealing to the once-medic despite the ache in his circuitry. But because of the nature of his situation, he couldn’t quite go to any congregation and lose himself. After the broadcasting and post-analysis of the case, Ratchet was often recognized and once he was the alienation flooded in. Carriers would move in the opposite direction, the youths would be urged to divert their paths by older counterparts, militant ‘bots would keep him within their radars, and citizens would murmur, most words Ratchet could pick up, none at all too kind.

It was a lifestyle Ratchet never foresaw for himself. He wasn’t at all prepared for such harsh realities and yet he found himself continuing to move at an avid pace. At least until he felt he found a place he could disappear.

It was in Kaon’s sub levels where he found his solace. Still wrapped in a cloak, Ratchet kept his frame and face shadowed. No one there looked upon him, no one there found any reason to. Yet, even after some semblance of relief, Ratchet found the woes of the planet clumping together in the crevices he moved through.

Aging, discrepancy, disease, malfunction, and absolute disrepair cluttered the sub levels. Even in the northern settlements, Ratchet can’t quite provide a good statement of witnessing anything as unfortunate as the individuals currently around him. Medical programs still ran through his processors, and with each automatic scan, the state of the ‘bots hanging onto the corners and rolled into the ditches was enough to make Ratchet want to break himself apart if just to offer much needed parts.

Rubbing at the cracked corner of his helm, Ratchet recalled an altercation with a more than erratic sire. For no other reason than falling into the public’s hate of him, the mech had slammed his fist against Ratchet, luckily only clipping the side of his helm, but that wasn’t the only near-mobbing Ratchet had to escape from. Following such incidents he learned to wear a covering and keep from the more populated regions. After all of that, he couldn’t abandon his safety simulations and kept to himself amongst the desolate.

Thoughts of fuel and upkeep provisions began to stream through his processor. Ratchet knew he’d need to find a way to obtain both if he was going to be able to prolong his life. From where he stood he could see junkyards, each mass infested with damaged, run-down, and troubled ‘bots hoping to find something to help. Not ideal, but a place Ratchet would need to get to know soon.

At a corner, Ratchet sat himself down for a short rest. His joints could use a good lubing, it had been a while since he was even able to do so. The scuffs on his once pristine white paint were many and dated. It wouldn’t be too long before Ratchet mirrored those around him.

In his personal examination Ratchet noticed a misplaced screw wedged in the corner of his knee joint. Not one of his own, but somehow embedded within. He must have picked it up during a drive.

His hand bent away and a pair of pliers slung out. Despite the top-tiered equipment being taken from him, Ratchet was fortunate enough to find discarded machinery, or pieces thereof, and after some adjustments, crafted the tools for himself. Rough and a little more challenging to handle, Ratchet made due with them. The pliers were able to latch onto the foreign screw and pick it clean of the ‘bot’s frame.

“Almost feels like new,” Ratchet muttered to himself, managing a quiet chuckle as he swung his leg. It’s been a while since he resounded so much as a pitch that rang similar to a laugh. Perhaps there was still a chance at saving Ratchet’s sanity.

Standing up, Ratchet looked across the walkway. A fairly large junkyard lay there. With his route in objectives, Ratchet began making his way toward it. However, something came across the walkway that prevented him from reaching his destination.

The streets, while congested, clogged more so and began to move in a fluid direction. Ratchet tried to fight its current, but ended up being pushed along with it. The flow eventually piled into a square full of simple shops and flickering lights. After its halt, Ratchet shook his bearings in place and began to sift his way out of the crowd, hoping to return to the destination he was previously at.

“How long, my brothers! How long must we suffer in the gutters, in the waste stations, and the junkyards?” Ratchet paused for a moment. Turning, he was just close enough to notice a group of mechs standing atop an elevated marker, their vocals echoing around the square as they upheld a datapad. They were reading excerpts. “Should we pile the grounds with our shells only to grow their cities out of our energies? Should we fade our lights so that theirs can shine brighter? Nay. It is our hands that form the foundations of our states, our pedes that carve the pathways into the core of this planet. So why not let out vocals spread into every crevice, corner, and square? Declare your sentience, uphold your individuality, and guard your sparks!”

Great, Ratchet washed into an Anti-Fuctionist gathering.

With a huff, Ratchet carried on in his objective to get out of the crowd. He didn’t personally have anything against anti-fuctionists, but coming from city-states such as Iacon, he found them more than a little annoying and their arguments pointless. The movement itself was inspired on a series of anonymous writings. And whoever the writer was didn’t seem to concern themselves as much with their pieces as other clinging ‘bots.

It would fade out eventually. Until then Ratchet would keep his opinions to himself and slip away, shutting off his receivers from further prattle. He’s had plenty of time and reason to develop a well-endowed character of aloofness, and would continue to use the persona.

Pushing and bumping past spectators with minimal interaction was simple enough, but one ‘bot teetered farther than expected, and habitually Ratchet reached out to stabilize him.

“I’m so sorry.” Ratchet noticed the mech’s shaking frame, as well as his decent. “Are you alright?” Methodical scans ran and just as the ‘bot further collapsed and convulsed on the ground, Ratchet realized his emergency. “Sir? Sir!”

Habitual protocol took over, and immediately Ratchet found himself tilting the mech’s helm upward while pressing into plate seams to unlatch his chassis. Even with the tremors, Ratchet was able to slide his digits into the ‘bot’s core wiring. After gliding over a certain lump, Ratchet slung out his pliers and reached down to snap the cord.

“Slag! What happened?”

“Dugnode!”

Now the crowds began to notice? Ratchet would have further ignored them hadn’t one reached down and took hold of his wrist rotators, halting any further advance.

“What are you doing to him?” Hysteria laced the vocals, and more than a dozen fear whirling optic lenses peered down at them.

“I’m trying to help!” Ratchet pulled his arm away, attempting to return to the mech in need, but more uncertain ‘bots reached out, grabbing a hold of him.

“Help? No, no you’re trying to harvest him! He’s not even offline and you’re trying to harvest him!” That reasoning seemed to run through many of the processors surrounding them, and it was from that misunderstanding that had Ratchet clamped down, at least until one ripped off his cloak.

There was a sound of surprise and then silence as a small perimeter was made. Despite a few dents and scuff marks, Ratchet’s well-kept paint was a higher level than any of those present. And no doubt they’ve seen him on the channels.

“An upper?” Murmurs full of this term began spreading. “What are you doing down here?” Ratchet was surprised none had recognized him. To them, he was simply a ‘bot from topside, an “upper.”

“Please, I’m a medic. You’re friend’s just collapsed from transition clutter, let me help.” Ratchet tried to plead to their senses, but his efforts were backsliding as the ‘bots began encroaching, optics shades darker.

“Why are you here?”

“Your kind doesn’t belong!”

“Is there nothing left up there that you have to come down here and take what’s left of us?”

Ratchet held up his hands. He did not want to fight, and more importantly he did not want to get mauled.  “I was just passing through. I’ll be on my way if you just let me help.”

“You shouldn’t be here, upper!”

“Scamper back from where you came from!”

Their enclosing pushed Ratchet back, however it only pushed him into the other observing crowd. He came to this conclusion when he bumped into a large mech. Turning, Ratchet gave him the same submission.

“Will you really help?” The large silver mech’s scarlet optics bore into Ratchet’s very core, and from the stance, the medic was certain his own expiration balanced in his forthcoming answer.

Nodding, Ratchet said, “Yes, I will.”

It was then the large mech turned on the enraging crowds. “If he wants to help, let him help!” While there were shouts of opposition, there was nothing enacting physically. For good reason, considering the size of the silver mech.

He turned back toward Ratchet, motioning toward the downed ‘bot. “Help, if that’s what you’re going to do.”

It was under the scrutiny of the crowd and the silver mech’s heavy scarlet glare that Ratchet knelt back down and shoved his hands into the ‘bot’s chest wiring. He located the clogged tube. From there he squeezed it, watching as crystalized energon clumped out. Primus, what kind of fuel had this ‘bot been in-taking?

“Does anyone have a welder?” Ratchet looked at the observing faces. There were ‘bots of all functions, there should be someone. The silence and reluctance, however, continued. And so Ratchet turned toward the silver mech and met his gaze. “I need a welder.”

After a short pause the mech turned back toward the crowd. “A welder.” His command was met instantaneously and as soon as one was placed in his hand he leaned over and handed it to Ratchet.

With a nod of thanks, Ratchet started up the device and bent back over the ailing ‘bot. It didn’t take more than a few nano-kliks for the job to be done. After so Ratchet closed and fastened the chassis.

Green optics began to glow again, and as the ‘bot moaned those around reached out, helping him back to his feet. For a moment he simply stood there, a hand over his chassis as if processing, feeling. He then looked toward Ratchet. There was surprise in his features, but he kept his silence. And at the behest of his companions he was ushered off and away, the remaining witnesses turning their own fields away, ignoring Ratchet for the sake of his achievement.

Finding the trampled cloak, Ratchet once more wrapped himself in it and then turned toward the silver mech. He held out the welder. The owner never spoke up claim of it and so he offered it back to the one who handed it to him.

“It’s of no use to me,” the mech said. “And, unless you want to use it on yourself, I suggest you leave this region.”

Ratchet understood completely, and yet he still couldn’t help but scoff, his line of vision falling down to the grime-covered streets underpede. “Believe me, I would if I could.”

Ratchet had grown used to the high crash of crowded volumes, but not so much a returned response. Much less from one with no intentions to harm him. “Even you.” Ratchet looked toward the mech, curious over the lack of hostility and prejudice coded in his verbal frequency. Even with such an intimidating mass there was an understanding—even for an “upper.”

With a beckoning motion, the mech turned. Ratchet debated on following him. He just stood there as the silver ‘bot moved through the crowd, their distance growing. It was then Ratchet realized he personally didn’t have anything to lose if he followed, so he did.

The silver mech led him onto the upper sub level. Not much a distance from the crowded square. It was there a complex of apartments were carved into a hanging hull, and one of those homesteads belonged to the ‘bot he was following.

“When was the last time you refueled?”

Ratchet was barely past the threshold of the door, resorting to standing in place as he observed the area. The ‘bot was currently rummaging through the cabinets.

“It’s been . . .” Ratchet paused. Primus, has it really been _that_ long? He came out of processing when the mech turned and tossed him a medium-sized cube.

“It’s not much, and will not taste the best, but it’s all I have,” he said, taking a cube for himself and moving to sit at a small table. There happened to be one more chair.

Staring down at the cube in hand, Ratchet wasn’t sure what came over him. A wave of emotion he’d bottled in washed over his senses. He caught it just in time to keep himself steady and upright.

“Thank you.” He turned to the mech who continued to closely observe him while leisurely drinking.

“What’s your designation?”

Ratchet paused for a moment and then he slowly made his way closer toward the table. “You don’t know?”

With a brow plate raised the silver mech inquired, “Should I?”

Had Ratchet really reached the corners of Cybertron where the public faded and a completely new culture rose? Perhaps. Perhaps he had.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Ratchet’s digits dug into the energon cube, breaking the seal. “It’s Ratchet.” He took an experimental sip. Definitely not anything he’s ever had, and something taste modules would have to adjust to, but Ratchet’s body gleamed with the replenishment. “Might I ask yours?”

“Megatron,” the mech answered, crumpling up the empty container until its outer sealant faded away. “And, how long, might I ask, will you be keeping in Kaon’s sub levels?”

Ratchet turned his focus away from the cube in hand, back toward the silver mech. “Is there a preset time limit I should be aware of?”

A quick smile twitched Megatron’s lip plates. He shifted, crossing his arms while relaxing in his seat. “Not quite. Take it as an optional guideline. You might have found a region where no one recognizes you, doctor, but down here they’ll see you as something else.”

“An ‘upper,’” Ratchet recalled.

“I was going to say, ‘spare parts,’ but that term is appropriate as well,” Megatron replied.

Ratchet nodded, his digits tightening around the half absorbed cube in hand. “With all due respect, Megatron, I think I’ve garnered enough experience to be able to care for myself, even in the sub levels.”

Megatron made no further comment, simply sat and observed. Ratchet felt no discomfort, not when he finally found a place to hide away from everything.

“What was it that you did?” Ratchet had just finished his cube when the other spoke up again. There was no need to elaborate further, not when past logs shifted through the medic’s processor.

“I killed a carrier and her litter.” Ratchet didn’t detail further. He looked at the mech with a hard-pressed glow in his optics. If he needed a reputation in this city to keep ‘bots from looking his way then he’d nurture it.

“And they let you keep your life, helm and hands.”

Ratchet rotated his shoulder cogs. “They did.”

Nodding, Megatron rose. “I’ve learned one shouldn’t question destiny when it provides a pass. In these parts, your expertise is in high demand.” He paused, waving his hand. “Not the killing carriers and litters part, but your medical experience. Especially in my line of work.”

“Your line of work?” By estimate, Ratchet deduced Megatron’s form to fall within the lines of Manual, but the usual identifying stripes were nowhere present on his frame. And the mech didn’t seem to lean towards clarifying or confirming suspicions. No, there was a simple nod and Ratchet was once again following his lead.

To say Ratchet was surprised when Megatron lead him to a gladiatorial arena was an understatement, as well as an overstatement. The sense of it all began clicking into place when he moved through the underground campers, passing ‘bots who were too familiar with Megatron that could be explained away.

Ratchet had never observed a gladiatorial fight, not in channel or present. His tastes were elsewhere. And so to be underneath an arena, staring at contenders bristling themselves certainly was a new experience.

“And here I was: beginning to think you actually wouldn’t show up.” Ratchet, as well as Megatron’s attention was pulled toward a blue mech. He was prepping titanium knuckles in place when he turned to look toward them. The mech’s attention naturally fell to Ratchet. “It’s not like you to bring visitors.”

A startled sound purged from Ratchet’s vocals when someone had rounded and flicked up the hood of his cloak. He tried to reach back for it and conceal himself again, but too many already took notice of his face and paint.

There was a low rumbling whistle. “Well, I don’t see why not.” Another mech, the one who let curiosity uncover the guest. “He’s a cutie.”

“Overlord, Barricade,” Megatron named in succession. “We’ve known each other for some time now, enough for the both of you to understand just what would happen should I find this mech treated with any less respect from the both of you.”

Barricade was the first to submit, holding up his hands and giving them both a perimeter. “I got it, I got it. No touching.”

Overlord only kept to his corner, leaning against the grated wall, his optics scanning curiously.

“His name is Ratchet. He’s new to the city. I brought him here so he can be of service.” Megatron looked toward Ratchet who still had his bright optics on those around them.

“And what does he provide?” Overlord questioned, scrutiny in his gaze. “Weapons expert, metallikato instructor?”

“Doctor,” Ratchet finally spoke up after clearing his pitching frequency, and sliding his hood back on to shield himself from more than deviant optics aiming his way. “I’m a doctor.”

There was a laugh that hailed from Overlord. He leaned away from the wall, approaching his fellow warrior and the ‘bot he brought. “Couldn’t take old Painkiller and finally got yourself your own medic.”

“Oh, I won’t be the one needing him,” Megatron replied, his lips curved in the same manner as Overlord’s. The blue mech let out another laugh, not quite threatening, but not quite one filled with comradery.

“Hey, if you’re even an iota above Painkiller, you can count me as a regular,” Barricade mentioned, already looking to Ratchet for the care he’ll need.

There was a pat on Rachet’s back. Megatron motioned to him before moving toward the weapon’s hanger. “This occupation is entirely up to you. Down here, if you don’t like a ‘bot, you certainly don’t have to help them. But I can assure you the pay would be worth your while.”

Ratchet watched Megatron mull over the stacked racks, his optics leaning toward the maces. Watching him test the balance of a few of them alerted the medic’s sensors that this ‘bot knew how to handle his frame in a fight. His motions of practice were too precise for a once-assumed manual.

Trying to keep to himself was proving difficult for Ratchet. His frame couldn’t compare to a number of the ‘bots present, and his stance was one that had many curious sensors zoning in on him. Despite it all, Ratchet found himself gravitating toward Megatron’s perimeter. There was a warped sort of comfort even in his obvious dangerous range.

“How . . .” Ratchet was almost mesmerized by the way Megatron prepped his components for the upcoming match. “How long have you been a . . .”

Pausing mid lunge, Megatron turned his scarlet gaze on the smaller mech. “A gladiator?” Straightening, he ran his processors for a moment. “Quite a long time now.”

Ratchet couldn’t ignore the fact that his audial sensors continued to pick up the sounds of metal crunching metal and faint cries of pain in the distance. “Do you enjoy this line of work?”

Ratchet detected the scoff in Megatron’s vocals. “Hardly. But, after the mines were automated, there weren’t many other options I was able to choose from.”

Processor frames whirled as Ratchet connected the details. “Wait, you were a miner?”

Megatron’s smile was pleasant, even as a pinging alarm flashed across the hall. And then a staffer shouted, “Megatron, Shatterram! You’re up!”

“A story for another time.” And then Megatron turned and moved down the hall, being joined by his opponent just as the gates were raised. It was then Ratchet could see the lay of the arena, scattered with obstacles and bordered with spikes. He then wondered if every match ended in an offline.

“You wanna watch?” Ratchet turned to look at Barricade. His arms were crossed and optics flickered toward the closing gate. “There’s an observational window just down the hall.”

Collecting himself, Ratchet stuffed down his curiosity. “Oh, no. It’s not my scene.”

Barricade shrugged. “If you say so.” He paused for only a moment before he crouched down, hand rubbing his knee joint. “Then can you take a look at my rotators? Nothing serious, but ever since the last fight there’s been a weird kink that’s been driving me bolts and nuts.” Despite his disposition he looked up at Ratchet with a beg in his expressions, very similar to a youth asking their parent for an energon goodie. “Come on, you’re a doc, aren’t you?”

Yes, he was. And if Ratchet was going to manage any small amount of survival with the life he’s been given then he’d better learn to start taking the opportunities laid out for him.

Kneeling, Ratchet began the examination. “A kink you said, where at exactly?”

“Right here,” Barricade pointed, tapping the exact spot. “It sort of feels like an unbalanced gear, but I don’t suffer from those often, and, well, I’m no doctor so . . .”

Ratchet pulled out a few of his tools, nodding. “Right, I’ll take a look.”

. . .

“Doctor? Doctor Pharma?”

The aerial didn’t even realize he’d zoned out of the present and buried himself into his internal processor. But it was his patients’ vocals that pulled him back into reality. Shaking his helm, and dilating his optical panels, Pharma turned to the two seated in his office and returned to the task at hand.

“Oh, right.” He moved, picking up a case and then slipping in a stack of vials. “Take two of these within the next cycle and then two more following. If the symptoms persist contact me.”

The two ‘bots smiled and nodded in gratitude as they took the case and left. Once Pharma was alone he sounded a sigh and reached into his desk to pull out a datapad. On it was filled with back logs, a portion opened and observed while the majority remained to be researched. Any chance that he got, Pharma took to running through them, a tedious task, but one he met.

It was but two kliks later that he received an inbound call. He sounded another sigh until he noticed the ID. “Thunderclash?”

‘ _Pharma, I just had a meal with Gunterpipe_.’ Pharma leaned forward on his desk, interest peaked. ‘ _He told me that the evidence involving Ratchet’s case had been dated past expiration when they got it. Protocol had them toss out a majority of it_.’

Pharma’s optics darkened, a groan seeping past his grit dentals. “And none of them even bothered to question it? Slaggin’ Primus, our systems are run by androbaboons.”

‘ _Well, the good news is I know where the waste went, and the ‘bots in charge there are so backlogged that the chemicals in their possession hail from the First Age. I’m currently on my way to meet with them now_.’

“Did you tell Orion already?” Pharma heard Thunderclash sigh.

‘ _I couldn’t manage to get a hold of him. With how busy he’s been, I’d have better luck just relaying in person_.’

Pharma nodded. “After my shift, I’ll be sure to do it.”

‘ _How about your end? Any luck with the orders?_ ’ Pharma looked back down at his datapad. “Which one?” There was a pained chuckle, one that even Thunderclash picked up. ‘ _Keep it up, Pharma. You’re still doing a vital part_.’ Even though there was no need to, Pharma found himself shaking his helm, a hand coming up to rub down his tensed facial plates. “I know, but Primus, sometimes it feels like I’m getting nowhere, and when I’m getting nowhere _we_ go nowhere, and when we go nowhere Ratchet . . . Ratchet remains banished and homeless and fuelless, and, frag, I worry so much for him.”

‘ _You’re not the only one. But we’ve known him for a while, and we both know he’s got ways of handling himself_.’

Pharma let out a small laugh. “Yes, yes he does, doesn’t he?” After a short pause he straightened in his seat. “Alright then, off with you. I’ve got backlogs to get into.”

. . .

“Oh, you again?” The staff ‘bot didn’t look annoyed per say, but Orion did try to remain optimistic.

“I’ll only take a moment of your time. Please, could you answer some questions for me?” This was the fourth time Orion moved outside of Senator Proteus’ home. More than a few other times he managed to track down staff members on their routinely chores. He just happened to catch this one as they were hauling in a shipment of energon grade.

“I’ve really told you all that I know,” the staff ‘bot said, laying down his crate and crossing his arms, an opportune stance in Orion’s optics.

“No, it’s not about that day. I just want to ask you what your relationship with the medic was.” Primus knows how many interviews Orion has logged—on his own. And every time he reviews them he comes up with further questions.

“Relationship? Didn’t really have one. Ships in the night is all.”

Orion nodded, coding everything in. “From your perspective, how would you have described him?”

“Well, he seemed fair enough. From the times I did happen to pass by he never really gave me any doubt that he’d turn on the family.” The ‘bot rubbed his chin. “Though, I suspect that simply is the case with most malevolents.”

“If I may ask: were there any others in the staff that carried tension with him?”

“Tension? No, can’t say that I recall anyone like that.” He waved his hands. “Look, we all just do our parts. He did his too, until then.”

Orion moved to ask another question, but the sound of approaching motors and then a transformation shift turned his attention away. There was Senator Proteus himself, in tow was four of his personal guards. He must be returning home.

“Ah, Officer Pax. I would say you’re a sight for malfunctioning optics, but then I’d be lying.” Proteus wore a smile, his previous comment laced with jest, but Orion suspected dismay as well.

The staff ‘bot said nothing and only picked his crate back up and carried on with his job. Orion was left alone within the Senator’s range.

“The Enforcement is really lucky to have you, Pax. Determined and persistent. Noble qualities,” Proteus said, keeping a smile Orion wasn’t sure how to decipher.

“Thank you.” Orion inclined his head politely. “I just want to make sure justice is left in the end.”

“Justice? But it was, wasn’t it?” Proteus shifted. “You exhaust yourself for no reason. Your superiors already helped to assist me and my family. I continue to wonder why you keep coming back to a closed case.”

“According to regulation I-486, the proceedings of the case did not meet the proper time capacity. The regulation was written in law to give observational, enforcement, and investigative departments compliant room to determine correct analysis.” Orion didn’t at all have any qualms with quoting the law to the Senator, too aware he likely overlooked a majority of them.

“How amusing you are; relaying law to a senator. It was a governmental case. Naturally the investigative process would be pushed for priority. Simple as that.” Proteus reached out, swinging his arm around Orion in a friendly manner, but the hand patting his chassis was firm, almost threatening. “Look, I know that you and that medic were old Academy colleagues. No one wants to believe their friends are capable of unspeakable atrocities. It’s hard to process, and certainly harder to accept. I still find myself struggling to come to terms with just what happened. I suggest you do the same. Our dear Ratchet’s made a mess for himself, we wouldn’t want that mess falling on you, now would we?”

Orion’s optics narrowed. “I suppose not, sir.”

Proteus patted his chassis again and finally let go. “Good. Now do yourself a favor and get back to your proper work. Wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your superiors.”

When Proteus left with his escort and disappeared inside his estate, Orion Pax was left standing, observing, and loathing. He promised Ratchet from the day of his arrest, even after the time of his banishment, that he would find him justice even if he had to be the only one searching for it.

Fortunate enough; Orion had the likes of Jazz, Thunderclash, and Pharma on his side. They weren’t the best nor ideal group of investigators, and their different departments often created a clash of schedules, however, it also created opportunities to look into pieces of the case previously overanalyzed. While Orion did have his share of duties every day, he worked overtime to ensure he garnered enough time for his own investigations. This only led to restless as well as wearisome shifts.

His current shift had him feeling depleted. After a routine patrol Orion was just returning to the station when he bumped into a ‘bot. With lower than ideal fuel lines and in much need of a proper recharge, Orion hadn’t processed the mech’s field quick enough to avoid collision. Luckily there were only minor scratches.

Both transformed at the same time. “Apologies,” Orion called, giving the mech a scan down to assess the damage.

The mech seemed in brighter spirits than Orion. “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. Almost made me feel like I was back in Praxus.” He patted the small dent on is chassis, but otherwise waved off the offense.

“You’re from Praxus?” After an assessment Orion could conclude that the mech looked foreign.

With a nod the mech held out his hand. “Name’s Prowl, transferred yesterday, but arrived in the city too late to begin my position, so today’s my first day.”

“Orion Pax.” With a proper shake Orion’s curiosity peaked. “New cadet?”

Prowl shifted. “Sort of, mostly security at the Grand Imperium.”

“Impressive, I wonder how you managed to snag that kind of job,” Orion teased. Prowl smiled back at the comment.

“Oh, just my dashing feats back home,” he carried on. The two laughed for a moment before Prowl spoke up again. “So, does Iacon give their patrollers four thousand mile routes or are you just ill-equipped for the shift?”

It took longer than it should have to process Prowl’s quip. “Oh, no. I’ve just been expending myself in my own investigations.”

Prowl’s optic panels whirled with curiosity. “Your own investigations? Now that’s something I don’t hear often.”

Orion garbled his vocals for a moment, the slight static ping to it notified his exhaustion. “For a friend, one I believe was wrongly sentenced.”

Prowl’s attention seemed to be zoning in, and by the way he stepped closer it was clear he was opening his audio receptors. “Now that’s something I’ve been hearing quite often lately. Might I ask what became of him?”

Orion shook his helm, meeting Prowl’s line of sight. “You should already know what happened to the medibot accused of killing Senator Proteus’ mistress.”

Prowl’s optics flashed brighter for a klik. “ _That_ case? Why, everyone and their neighbor’s neighbor tuned into that. The doctor was your friend? I’m quite sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity.” Orion caught his emotion, but not until after he forced heavy words out. “Forgive me. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“No,” Prowl offered. “Perhaps it was I who jumped to conclusions. After all, I haven’t been a firm believer in Cybertronian justice these days. Though, it is common for relations to glitch out rational personalities.”

“So I’ve been told,” Orion mentioned. Scrutiny and guards aside, Orion straightened himself for a proper welcome. “Thanks for the honest conversation, Prowl, and welcome to Iacon. I wish you the best in fulfilling your role.”

Prowl nodded. “And I wish you the best in you fulfilling yours, both of them.” Prowl’s smile was genuine; it was becoming a rarity in those parts.

Transforming, Orion continued his drive toward the Station, unaware that his resolve spurred an interest in the other mech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, remember, Ratchet is still quite young. It wasn't that long ago that he graduated from the Academy. And Megatron here has yet to actually become the face and head honcho of the Anti-Functionist movement; all for plot convenience. We'll get there though!


	3. Dreams

There was a reason the Gladiatorial Games weren’t Ratchet’s scene. He was a medibot, and programed as such he was coded with the task of piecing together dysfunctional, malfunctioning, broken ‘bots adequately and professionally. And so when he was constantly met with familiar frames baring habitually occurring injuries then it was very reasonable why one such as himself would want to rip their own helm off in frustration.

“That’s it.” Ratchet tossed down his tools, letting their echoed sounds clatter into the casing they came in. Wide optics watched on in silence and patience as the red and white medic huffed. “This is the third time in a single mega-cycle that I’ve had to attach your left leg ligament.”

After wisely waiting a few kliks, Barricade spoke up. “So my opponents like ripping my legs off.” He shrugged, unsure what else to say or how else to approach this wary situation.

“Legs?” Ratchet shook his helm. “No, just one, and not just any one, the _left_ one.”

Barricade didn’t see why that was bugging the medic so much. It’s not like he was the one dismembered. “So then . . . can I have my leg attached back?”

Ratchet huffed one last time before reaching back into his tool case. Pulling out a welder he then took a hold of the detached part. “I really shouldn’t, not if you’re going to just keep losing it.” The flame from the weld tore into a few cords for only a short moment until the gates opened and in walked Megatron. A victor of his round, but the exposed shoulder rotators and the sizzle of torn wiring alerted the medic to his condition.

As if on instinct, Ratchet turned. His scanners browsed over the severity of the wound. They had just enough time to categorize it as Minor-Medium before the glow from Megatron’s gaze tore through the systematic scan.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving away the worry and moving toward the weapon’s hanger to return the one he clung to.

It was easily determined that Megatron was one of the best arena fighters in Kaon from the lack of repairs he required. Ratchet hadn’t seen an opponent render any sort of damage on the silver mech until after a good few deca-cycles since he’d been working at the arena. Even then most of the damages were simple abrasions or clippings, and so it became normality for Megatron to return sporting the damage replying with a simple, “I’m fine.” Because he was.

Despite that, Ratchet couldn’t help but gravitate toward those simplistic injuries.

Without a word, Ratchet halted the limb reattachment and scampered off after Megatron’s trail.

“Aw, come on!” Barricade bemoaned. “You were just . . . couldn’t you at least not leave me midway?” His complain was ignored as well as the other displeased murmurs of the lined ‘bots in wait for Ratchet’s expertise repair.

“Let me take a look at it,” Ratchet called, trotting up beside Megatron. Without any form of consent he tried assessing the damage more properly. His hand came up and noticed the clipped shoulder plate, dangling, attached only by a few sensory wires.

“I said I’m fine,” Megatron insisted, shirking himself away and leaning over the racks to clip his selected weapon away. “You’ve got a line, doctor. They’ve been standing there long before I have.”

“And they can wait,” Ratchet dismissed, once more leaning up to look at the sparking wound. With a sounded sigh, Megatron relented and knelt down to give Ratchet a better reach. A few kliks later and Ratchet garnered a better assessment of the damage. “Just what I thought; he severed a few radiator cables. Your rotators are intact, but aging. I suggest you begin looking in the market for replacements.” He sighs, turning to look back toward his waiting patients. “A better diagnoses than many of those dumbafts. Primus, they make me feel like such an inadequate medic. My programs tell me to put them together and then gives me satisfaction when the tasks are done. And then they end up like _that_ ,” he waves to their status. “All. The. Time. Sizzles my circuits.”

Hearing Megatron’s laugh rumbling through his large chassis had Ratchet pulling his attention away from the glaring repair line and back toward the mech beside him. “Following the coding of your programs will only short you sooner than later, Ratchet, my friend.”

Chortling, Ratchet shook his helm, a smile on his lip plates. “You’re beginning to sound like the rest of the ‘bots down here.”

“Hey, come on! He doesn’t even pay. We’re the actual customers.” Barricade’s whine rung up, encouraging the others in wait to hail their complaints.

 Ratchet made a face, ensuring each complainer saw it. “I can do whatever I want with my services.”

“Actually . . .” Ratchet turned back to Megatron. There was genuine discomfort. “I would like for that to end.”

Ratchet’s optics faded for the slightest moment, his processors ramping. “What?”

“It is hardly fair that I move out from under the heavy brunt of your medical bill,” Megatron said with sincerity. “Being the exemption doesn’t quite make one popular.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “And since when do you care about popularity? I have a right to choose or not choose who I want exempted.” His snarky distaste began to dissolve. “Besides, I owe you for helping me. When no one else would trust me, you did; you took me into your home, fed me, and gave me the opportunity to find work. If waving your bill is any small part in repayment, then I’ll gladly continue to do it.”

Despite Megatron’s nod, rebuttal laced his tone. “I still want to give you something for all you’ve provided.” Ratchet made noises of protest, but before any sensible word was formed Megatron said, “I won a profile match today. They paid me pretty good.” He smiled, holding onto said expression even as Ratchet’s face scrunched. “If you won’t take shanix, then how about you let me pay you with high grade energon? I know a bar a few levels up that still carries it.” Megatron took Ratchet’s sudden silence as contemplation, and so he pushed. “It must be some time since you’ve had any. Same for me.”

Megatron was right. It has been a while. High grade in Kaon was near common in Iacon. Primus, Ratchet missed the taste of it.

“Fair enough.” Ratchet nodded, falling into the same smile.

Megatron then nodded back toward the waiting line. “I can wait until you’re done.”

And Megatron did. After Ratchet was finished with the murmuring ‘bots he turned his attention back toward Megatron, ensuring he was prim and proper before they journeyed up.

The bar was located on the third sub level, situated between a combustion station and a hydraulic firm. Aside from the odd place of position, it was a lively establishment, just big enough to accommodate ‘bots over twenty cyberheads and sported a wrestling ring. When Ratchet and Megatron arrived, there were four minicons going at it, stacked atop each other and smacking faces within a circlet of waving bets. It might have been humorous for the medic hadn’t he understood that it likely was a way of life and livelihood for the small ‘bots.

 Megatron sat them in the common area where mechs and femmes dined and chatted, surrounded by monitors tuned into various frequencies and stations. Their order placed, Ratchet found his optics falling to the monitor in the corner, meshed between two sports broadcasters. The one he was looking at though was a news station, specifically one in subject of Iacon.

“Do you miss it?”

Ratchet perked, turning to his tablemate. “Oh.” He sounded a sigh, optics falling to the leftover crumbs still littering the table. His hand spread out, wiping them away, just to give himself something to do. “I suppose. But . . . I suppose not. No use missing a city that doesn’t miss you, right?” He gave a smile and gave a laugh, both shallow.

“You left behind a lot of things there, friends no doubt.” It was like Megatron knew what was jumbling around inside Ratchet. For an ex-manual-now-gladiator, the mech was very intuitive.

Ratchet nodded. “Yeah.” He missed them, and wondered if they missed him.

“Your fuel.” The waiter ‘bot sat down two large jugs of energon, and the color of it made Ratchet’s systems whirl in excitement, as well as his mainframe transfer stills of times when he leisurely drank with his friends—the ones he left in Iacon.

Picking up his, Megatron raised his jug to Ratchet’s. “Well, if you ever find reason to leave this city, may you leave behind friends here as well.”

Ratchet tilted his head, processing the odd wording. “That’s not necessarily something I find comforting, but . . .” He smiled, clapping jugs. “If I did, you can rest assured I’ll leave behind a number of them.”

The energon was good, a treat to have, one Ratchet never thought he’d consider such. Despite the noise, the less than ideal convoluted atmosphere, and the array of shady business happening undercurrent, Ratchet found his core warming with pleasantry. The energon was delicious and the company an absolute delight. He and Megatron were able to delve into a multiple assortment of topics, many of which kept his mainframe away from focus of Iacon and what it once was to him.

It was strange; his view of Kaon was once like many other ‘bots of his mold—a gaudy place where a majority of the rowdy, unabashed thrived and withered. Industrial and nothing much else save for the uprising Gladiatorial Games. To be fair, it still was that, but living in and amongst the populace, Ratchet found little difference from the citizens of Iacon. Sure, Iaconians’ paints were brighter, their alloys shinier, and their businesses more world-renowned, but Cybertronians were Cybertronians no matter what city they hailed from. The people of Kaon were just as honest workers as those of Iacon, as well as just as dishonest workers, all striving to survive. Just like Ratchet.

It was a paranoia and relief when Ratchet shed his cloak. Yet in all his endeavors inside the sub levels of the city, he hadn’t so much as been bothered save by rude and prejudiced stare. That all began to lessen, either because Ratchet’s pristine paint began to fade or that the other dwellers realized he was in the same walk of life as they and accepted his place among them. Ratchet liked to believe so.

Yet, it really was only a matter of time before the past caught up again.

“Hey, isn’t that that medic?”

“Ugh, I can’t dine with a sparkling killer sitting next to me.”

Ratchet had just finished his jug when his audial receptors picked up on the comment. There was a femme sitting at the table next to them. There were two mechs as well, both of which glared at Ratchet with the same intensity that their companion did.

“Is he even allowed to be here?”

It really was only the three of them. The rest of the crowds paid no attention, and kept to themselves. And the three made no further advancement to create a dramatic scene.

Now Ratchet wished he hadn’t abandoned his cloak so prematurely.

“Server.” His optics landed on Megatron who was waving the waiter ‘bot toward them. “I want a barrel of high grade and then the bill. We’re ready to go.”

Ratchet’s brow plates rose a fraction. “We’re leaving, already?”

Megatron nodded, standing up. “Too noisy.” There was a frown on his face of which remained even as they paid and hauled the barrel back to the apartment.

“A whole barrel, Megatron?” Ratchet found himself shaking his helm often in those parts. “You must have had one slag of a payday. Where am I going to put it?” He chuckled when he put it on the table, the thing damn near took up the entire expanse. Not that it was a large table in the first place.

“Just put it in storage. I can promise that it won’t be taking up space for long.” Megatron’s chuckle matched Ratchet’s as the medibot took the container and moved it to where he was told. However, due to the uneven lay of flooring, as well as the odd angle of the narrow storage closet, his pede caught and the bulk of his frame bumped into the shelves, knocking one board off.

Neither had much to their designation, and so only a trifle of objects rolled off the stretch of board, but as it cluttered to the ground it did reveal the rusted hole it once concealed. Inside of which nested a collected amount of shanix.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Ratchet moved the barrel and immediately picked up the fallen board. “Bigger klutz than I seem to remember.” He could only chuckle at himself, slinging out a welder to begin repairing the damages.

“And here I was under the assumption you were a medibot. Doctor, you must tell me the wiles of your wrecker years.” Ratchet’s glare back caught that humoring grin on the silver mech’s facial plates, as well as his movement in bending over to pick up the items that had rolled off, collecting them for resettlement.

“So, what’s it for?” Megatron looked confused until Ratchet nodded toward the stored shanix. “A new model? You’ve collected enough for one.”

With a glance toward the coins, Megatron processed understanding. “A dream,” was all he said. As soon as Ratchet stabilized the shelf, and the items were restored, Megatron moved away.

“A dream?” Ratchet questioned.

Megatron nodded, pausing for only a moment before he decided to step outside of the apartment. He waved for Ratchet to follow him and once they were outside, leaning against the railing and letting the gusts of the crevices below rush against their frames, Megatron nodded toward a structure. What once looked like a tower, lay a few sub levels up, teetering over the crevices like a drawn line across the skies above.

“We call it Diagonal Tower. It used to be situated on level with upper Kaon until it fell into improper management and a bankruptcy saw disrepair plague it. Now it’s like that, and is the home of some of the most fortunate of Kaon’s sub levels. From here, and further down, that tower is visible and in the aspirations of many bots’ records. Mine included.”

Granted it wasn’t much to look at, Ratchet could see the appeal it festered inside Megatron, and the serene look in his expressions showed his ambitions. More proof of this sincerity obvious in the collected sum of shanix.

“Must have one slag of a view,” Ratchet carried, zoning in on the building.

“That it does,” Megatron replied.

. . .

A position in the Elite Guard in the capital city certainly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Prowl, unfortunately, found this out the hard way. From the first log-in, to armor fitting, and then weapons matching, all the Praxian did was stand in place listening to the snide remarks of his coworkers. Primus, they chattered more than Mrs. Vanbelt in his protoform neighborhood.

“Nothing much happens around here, huh?” Prowl preset his tone to friendly. There was a desire to form bonds with his comrades, however, even after a day he was drawing doubts about that aspiration.

“Not really,” one of the guards, a red mech, replied, rolling his shoulders.

“Not unless you want it to,” another mentioned, a yellow mech, chuckling and getting his fellow to join with him.

“Whoa now, you guys make controversy sound like morning greetings.” Prowl shifted, holding a pleasant face despite the unease and curious distrust coiling inside his module shifters.

“Definitely a newbie,” the yellow mech commented, carrying on his chuckle with his counterpart.

“Just wait until you’ve been here long enough, and then you’ll get to the fun,” the red one said, his smile too sharp for Prowl’s taste.

“Oh yeah?” Prowl leaned in, feigning interest. “You guys care to name a few? Something to get me from falling into stasis on my pedes.”

His friendly ruse earned him enough interest from the other two and then they began to tell him stories. Some severely dated while some seemed like they came straight off the cyberpress. The information they collected was enough to make a reporter ‘bot dizzy.

Despite it all, many of their stories came off as hardly believable, be it that many of said scenarios were passed down from guard to guard. But then again, Prowl had promised himself to remain a little more open the day he left his home city, and so the possibilities of these seemingly tall tales proving to be true was baffling and more than infuriating. Why, Prowl could feel his core gradually gaining temperature at the mention of some of these poor convicted’s sentencing. And the reasons for such were astounding.

“Yellow Bolt wasn’t the worst of it,” the red guard said as he and his fellow quieted in their snickers. “Honest to Primus, you heard about that medic right? Those one who killed Senator Proteus’ missy?”

Prowl tuned his audials. “I’m listening.”

“Well, Rightarm, who happens to be a good friend of mine, was stationed at the jail they thrown him in, and—”

“Attention!”

All three halted all aspects of leisure and straightened their forms. Down the hall came an escort. It was Sentinel Prime. He nodded at them, standing tall and proud, waiting for the door to be opened.

“Oh, right.” Prowl had been taught the protocol and the required steps before anyone entered into the Grand Imperium. However, he did notice he was the only one moving to meet these courses of action.

His two coworkers were laughing between themselves. And with a look toward Sentinel and his guard, Prowl realized more than a few things.

“Sorry, just transferred,” one of Prowl’s companions excused to the Prime and his entourage. After which he moved and typed in the key, letting him and his men enter the building without proper assessment and pat down.

“Prowl, you gotta learn; you don’t check Elite Guards or anyone higher. There’s just no need,” the yellow mech said.

Prowl found himself reluctantly shaking his head in compliance and then racing from his post the moment he was excused. His route wasn’t toward his apartment or even Maccadam’s Oil House—of which he will visit one day. Instead he headed toward the Enforcement Station to look someone up.

“Hi, excuse me. I was wondering if there was an Officer Pax stationed here?”

The receptionist looked more interested in the monitors before him than in meeting the expectations of his job. Yet another thing Prowl was finding lacking and quite disappointing in this city. When the mech finally did look at him he took one look at the symbol on his chassis and then turned back to the monitors.

There was a short bout of typing before the receptionist handed Prowl a pad with directions. “He left early. Went to the Medical Facility for an appointment.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “Thanks for your help.”

Finding the Medical Facility was easy enough, navigating through it though was not something Prowl was entirely lucky with. There were a plethora of medibots as well as scores upon scores of patients. Prowl wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he drove over. Finding that officer would be easier planned than accomplished.

But he had time, and he was certain that rather large mech wouldn’t be hard to miss. And so he set off exploring the place, keeping his field open and friendly with all the new faces he met. There was one group that caught Prowl’s attention, only because he managed to pick up some of their verbal frequencies and the topic they were rambling on about found a familiarity with him.

It was about the Medic Ratchet.

Coming to a halt, Prowl turned around and moved to follow the group as they rounded a corner. He was certain they wouldn’t mind sharing their honest opinions as they were with their colleagues. However, the moment he turned the corner he was met with a scuffle. Another medibot, an aerial, was making certain his fists were ramming into every face.

That was when he caught sight of Officer Pax. He had rushed out of a room and was the first one to latch onto the crazed medic, pulling him out of the scuffle. However, the assaulted group didn’t at all seem to accept the end of that altercation as they lashed back, trying to overpower the both of them by sheer numbers.

And so Prowl jumped in to assist.

“That’s enough! That’s enough!” Prowl commanded. Irritated optics glared at him but the moment they noticed his sigil they quickly broke apart and dispersed their threat.

Looking over toward Orion and the medic, he noticed their mirrored confusion.

“Prowl?” Orion looked surprised and the medic he just released looked more interested on stopping the fluid leak from his scenting plane. There was a polite hand shake and relief in one another’s presence. “You look the part now. I take it you’re settling down at the Grand Imperium?”

Prowl sighed. “More than settling down. I think they’re trying to bury me and hope some organic root sprouts up out of my fertilized shell.” A small laugh was shared before the medic’s glare became too much.

“Oh, Prowl, this is my friend Pharma. Pharma, this is Prowl. You can say we ran into each other,” Orion introduced.

Prowl reached out to shake the medic’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet Orion’s friends.” After the curious shake Prowl nodded. “You’ve got quite a grip for a medibot, as well as a swing. I’m officially a fan.”

Pharma didn’t say much at the comment, just a simple, “Yeah, well, they had it coming.”

Prowl then zeroed in on the obvious. “You were a friend of Junior Officer Ratchet’s as well.”

“Oh? And what gave you that idea?” Pharma was still focused on the fluid leak, but kept up with the conversation.

“I actually went to the station to look for you,” Prowl told Orion. “And then I was directed here. I wanted to tell you some things I’ve learned at the Elite Guard.”

“Then I do hope you come to share it with all of us.”

The three turned to see Thunderclash and Jazz walking up the hall. They too were introduced to Prowl. In the end they took their meeting to the recovery patio. A serene place built of mostly glass where ailing patients or simple staff on break could sit and enjoy a quiet atmosphere.

It was there Prowl was informed about the group’s endeavors, and it was there he too told them the sincerity of his intentions.

“I’ve worked a lot of security gigs before, but nothing quite like this,” Prowl said. “A lot of things I witnessed are kind of expected, but there’s things I don’t know about. I’m starting to sense a lot of truth in what they tell the public is falsified fodder.”

“I’m sorry you had to leave Praxus for this,” Thunderclash bemoaned.

“It’s alright,” Prowl waved. “Besides, now I feel like I have an operative. It’s a little exciting, and frightening all at the same time. But . . . I want to help. I can’t go against my programming.”

“While I keep regular tabs on the witnesses, I can’t say I’m allowed to just waltz into higher governmental establishments. But,” Orion pointed to Prowl’s chassis, “With that sigil, you’ll be able to slip into places I couldn’t get clearance to.” He paused, wary. “You really don’t have to do this, Prowl. Ratchet was a dear friend of ours and the reason we still press on. You . . . you have nothing to gain in this, but a lot to lose.”

“Hey, so do you guys,” Prowl reminded.

“Which reminds me,” Pharma looked toward Jazz. “Any luck with the location?”

That’s when Jazz sounded a sigh. “So, yeah, about that. Look, guys, I’m trying my best while also trying to keep my helm out of the line of fire with my superiors. I can only do so much, and that ‘so much’ just happens to end in a cold trail.”

“Cold trail?” Thunderclash questioned. “I thought you said you traced him to the Rust Sea region.”

“And that’s where it went cold,” Jazz said, looking more distressed than ever.

“Because you couldn’t find anything else or because your department’s put a tighter restriction around you?” Pharma inquired.

“They’ve done that for all of us,” Orion spoke up, trying to hold the peace. “Look, I know it’s not easy, but we’ll get nowhere if we quarrel. Even if it’s at a slower than likable pace, at least it’s moving along.” He turned to Prowl. “Thanks to Prowl, this day’s looking to be one of the betters. All we have to do to see this through is to not give up.”

“Who said anything about giving up?” Pharma piped. “I just slugged two Juniors and a Senior Medical Officer. And I’m ready to do it again.”

Prowl let out a laugh. The four diverse cast of ‘bots looked at him. “I tell you Ratchet must have been one lucky ‘bot to have friends like you. I’m more than a little jealous.”

“You treat us right and we can promise that we’ll look into your case the moment you’re jailed.” Thunderclash nodded his head, a wry look on his features. Cheeky.

“You know though,” Prowl said. “If you guys manage to pull all of this off, it’s going to be slag of a story my old Mrs. Vanbelt will be talking about for ano-cycles. And I just can’t wait to hear all about it.”

. . .

“I used to be a Law Enforcer. Was really good at the job, too. It turned out I did more beatings than ticket citations and found myself on the other end of the jail cell. After I did my time, I signed up in this crummy place, with its crummy co-workers, and crummy pay. But, hey, at least I get to indulge in what I’m good at.” Barricade’s smile wasn’t comforting for the likes of Ratchet who looked at the mech with reluctant pity while he worked on reattaching his leg.

“Was gladiatorial services really your only option?” Barricade wasn’t manual like many of the ‘bots down there. Surely there was a wider span of options for him than there had been for certain others.

Barricade rotated his shoulder gears. “Pretty much. With my record, I wouldn’t even be able to get work as a waiter ‘bot. System doesn’t change for no one.”

Ratchet was beginning to understand why anti-fuctionism was such a popular subject in those parts. Save for Overlord and a few others, a majority of the gladiators weren’t keen on the Games. There just hadn’t been any other option for them. And they were doing what they could to survive.

“Alright, how does that feel?” Ratchet leaned away, waiting for Barricade to test the reattachment. “Can you feel all your sensors?”

Moving into a crouch, Barricade leaned his weight into it, rotating gears and revving fans. “Yeah, feels fine to me.”

“Good.” Ratchet then reached out, slipped his digits between jointed seams and pulled a newly constructed lever. In an instant the ligament popped off.

“What the frag?!” Barricade teetered over, his aft hitting the ground while wide optics burned in the direction of his once again detached leg. Horrified, but uncomfortably curious, he looked at his medic for answers.

Ratchet held onto his smile. “Since you’re so keen on losing this I figured it better to work in a failsafe.”

“Failsafe?” It was clear Barricade couldn’t wrap his internal processors around Ratchet’s reasoning.

Tapping the small lever situated at the peak of the joint, Ratchet said, “Your sensor cables and circuitry nodes are fully magnetic now, and so with a simple pull of this the entire ligament comes loose. No pain, no ruptured silicones and plating. The next time your opponent goes for your leg, snap it off and let him have it. You’ll be able to reattach it later. It’ll save you from the mounting repair bill, and it’ll save me the frustration of looking at your repetitive condition.”

Barricade sat there for a moment, his optics flickering even as Ratchet snapped his ligament back onto his form. There were a few twitches, testings to make sure his leg was working again. It was.

He looked at Ratchet. “Wow. You crafted this . . . for me?”

Ratchet bristled, placing his tools back into his case. “It was more for me than anything else,” he assured. Given that, Barricade didn’t seem to get that point.

“Thanks, doc! You’re absolutely amazing!” He rolled, bouncing on his legs, testing it further. His smile satisfied.

“As long as they don’t start going for your right leg, I’ll be the happy one.” Ratchet still couldn’t help but smile at Barricade’s enthusiastic reaction.

It was a little odd that he didn’t have as many patients that day. Moving, Ratchet entered Painkiller’s shop to find him working on a few parts, no patients with him either.

“Might I be of service?” There wasn’t much else to do at the moment, and until the pits were closed for the day, Ratchet wasn’t necessarily free to return to the apartment. Well, he was, actually, but it didn’t feel right given that the apartment wasn’t his in the first place. So he opted to wait, and usually kept his time with repairs.

Painkiller looked up at him from his work. A gruff expression that he’s gotten used to. With a jut of his chin structure he said, “Grab me the stack of sabers. Those afts have been using them like axes.”

With a nod Ratchet moved down the hall, toward the weapons hanger. On his way there he passed by a window, the one that allowed awaiting gladiators a chance to study fellows as they dueled in the arena. It just so happened to be Megatron’s fight, and a single glance was enough to stop the doctor.

In all of the time Ratchet’s been working at the arena, he’s never once viewed a fight. He kept telling himself he didn’t want to. He had no taste for them. And that still held true.

Observing now was just by chance. And his continual viewing was excused by the fact Megatron was struggling. He’d never heard of him struggling in a match before.

Granted no one ‘bot was perfect, and talented or skilled or however you wanted to label it, there wasn’t an individual immune to overpowerment. And right then Ratchet could see the strengths of Megatron’s opponent.

The mech was a sandy hue, large and bulky, more so than even Megatron. And he was using his weight to take the brunt of Megatron’s bashes, most of which did little more than dent the other’s frame. It didn’t take long for Megatron to realize the ineffectiveness of it all. That’s when Ratchet watched him move to defense.

Megatron maneuvered through the obstacles for quick strikes. They almost seemed to be working, disorienting his opponent. Unfortunately Ratchet caught the premature opening before Megatron did. A strike too soon saw Megatron leap from a tall tier, using his elbow to aim for the head. His opponent caught onto it, turning and shoving his own fingers into Megatron’s shoulder joints, and the dated gears gave way.

Ratchet was now pressing against the thick glass, his optics bright and wide as he watched the larger opponent shift, slamming Megatron onto the ground. Even from there Ratchet heard the sickening crunch of metal. Sensory lights aligned along Megatron’s ribal structure shifted from violet to scarlet, flicking. He was pinned.

“Get up,” Ratchet found his vocal processors forming. “Get up, you stupid fragger.”

The opponent began wailing, pounding his fist against Megatron’s chassis. Ratchet cringed with each created dent. But then, one falling fist was caught. Megatron used his legs to hold it into place while his only good arm strained against the hand holding him.

From there Ratchet watched Megatron lift the other bot’s arm by sheer strength. It grounded Ratchet, astounding his rational programs. What he was witnessing was near improbable as it was impossible.

The shift had Megatron’s opponent in a position to reel back the arm that Megatron had wound his legs around. As tightly as he held on, his form went with the retraction, and that was when Megatron took the opportunity of the surprise to reach out and shove his hand through neck seams, his digits wrapping around vertebrae cabling and pulling. Spouts of coolant spewed into the atmosphere, Megatron’s opponent began to choke, stumbling back.

And Megatron simply lay there, watching as the other gladiator fell, convulsing from the rupture. The match was over, Megatron had won. Barely.

Not letting another moment pass, Ratchet turned on his bearing pedes and raced down the hall. He made sure he was the first one at the gates when they opened. When Megatron leaned forward, Ratchet reached out to steady him.

Megatron’s optics flickered as he looked down at Ratchet. “I’m—”

“Fine?” Ratchet’s face was laced with displeasure. “Like slag you are.” He groaned, Megatron’s weight was not something he could quite accommodate. Luckily there were some fairly sizable staff ‘bots that came and assisted in bringing Megatron toward a corner where Ratchet kept his equipment.

Megatron was at least able to sit up and remain in said position as Ratchet raced around him. There was a variety of tools he sifted through, many of which he shouldn’t have any right using on Megatron because he’s never needed them. Murmurs and curses flew around him as he began lifting plating to assess the damage.

“What was even running through your central command compartment out there?” Ratchet’s optics were bright and zoned as he glared at the mech hunched over with injuries he’s never seen on him before. “I thought you were seasoned. You acted like a novice train-o-bot out there.”

Ratchet felt his core heat and the circuits at the back of his helm sizzle after hearing Megatron laugh, and in a situation like this. “A mistake I well learned, doctor.”

“Oh, you’d better. I do NOT intend to fix you like this again.” Ratchet shifted, slinging out a welder and moving it along displaced plating.

And then Megatron laughed _again_.

“I thought you didn’t watch.” Scarlet lights flicked toward Ratchet’s position. The medibot paused for a moment, meeting Megatron’s gaze and then turning away, he had seams to seal.

“It was just a passing glance,” Ratchet gave. “And how disappointed I was. First time seeing any part of a fight and it’s of one where you’re getting your aft handed to you.”

“I won,” Megatron countered and clarified.

Ratchet scoffed, picking up some pliers to pull out crushed cables. “At what cost?”

It took Ratchet several cycles before he was satisfied with the repairs and even then he didn’t classify the work as complete. He could only groan at the timing of it all.

“Just as I thought, you’re going to need new rotators.” Ratchet hadn’t expected them to break so soon, but with the wear and tear and tension they constantly came under, he couldn’t say he was surprised.

“A comment previously noted, but continually ignored.” Megatron looked down at his arm, the one his opponent tore into. He still held some semblance of control of his joints and hand, but the functioning process was low. “I can’t afford them. Not right now.”

“‘Can’t afford them’,” Ratchet parroted with a scoff. Hands on his hips he shook his helm. “I know you can. Just use some of the funds—”

“No!” Megatron’s stance was firm at least on that. “I will not.”

“But you need them,” Ratchet pressed. “How else are you going to carry on in these fights?”

“Sod them together,” Megatron replied. Not that it was a very intelligent response in Ratchet’s processor.

“What? No, it doesn’t work like that.” Ratchet picked up the parts, showing them to Megatron. “They are broken. Sodding them would only cover up the degradation. They’ll just break again.”

“Then there’s a chance they’ll hold before I can procure efficient funds for replacements.” Megatron’s stubborn position was infuriating. “Sod them together.”

“But you can’t . . .” Ratchet looked down at the broken parts for only a moment before turning heated optics back toward his patient. “No. I’m not going to do this.” He reached out and placed the pieces into Megatron’s hand. “I’m not going to be the one responsible for your malfunction.”

There was a moment Ratchet believed he saw disappointment in Megatron’s surprise. But it faded just as quickly as the ‘bot stood up.

“Fine, I’ll just get Painkiller to do it.” And then he left.

Ratchet felt frustrated anger jolt through his wiring, but he took hold of it and then willed it down. “No, no, it’s not my fault, and won’t be my fault what happens to him.” He leaned down and began packing his tools away, intent on leaving the arena as quickly as he could.

Tools gathered, Ratchet hauled himself out. On his way, however, a mech reached out and took hold of his arm, halting his proceedings.

“Why didn’t you fix him?” Overlord looked down at Ratchet as if he were the problem.

With a frown, Ratchet shook his arm out of the mech’s hold. “Because I couldn’t. Count yourself lucky, Overlord; maybe you’ll finally be able to best Megatron.”

Overlord’s optic’s narrowed. “If he loses I will blame you.”

The threat was noted, but Ratchet didn’t understand the reason behind it. “That doesn’t sound like the usual wish of an opponent.”

“If Megatron loses, I want him to lose at his best. I will take no satisfaction in beating a half-repaired mech,” Overlord explained.

“Nothing I can help you with, Overlord.” Ratchet wanted to shake him off, maneuver around him, but the blue mech only managed to push himself in his way again, reminding him of the threat that he was.

“Take care of him, medic, or I will take care of you.” Overlord was a strange ‘bot in that he enjoyed the games, respecting the coded and uncoded rules, as well as carrying an honor for all of his opponents, even the ones he’s offlined. Even in all of that, he wasn’t above dominance and threating, especially to a mech such as Ratchet.

“Message received,” Ratchet replied warily. It was only then Overlord moved out of his way and allowed his exit.

His walk back to the apartment met the return of his anger. He wanted to kick things, to swat and maybe even punch a few things, but Ratchet bottled it up knowing he was a ‘bot who could cool down given any needed time.

Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure what he was so upset for anyways. It wasn’t as if this was the first time a select warrior ignored his advice. There’d been scores before.

Megatron usually submitted to his consultation. In fact, today was the first time he hadn’t. Was that what was troubling him? Or perhaps it was Overlord’s threat.

Like frag Ratchet was afraid of Overlord.

To his left, Ratchet spotted a grouping of junkyards. Already a number of desolate ‘bots littered them, searching for something to make their functions easier. With any luck they’d find that sacred part, but luck wasn’t something that was affordable in those parts. Still, they persisted, something even Ratchet could admire.

Only a moment passed before a suggestive route popped up in front of Ratchet’s monitoring visors. Those scavengers had the right idea. And so Ratchet followed their lead.

Filled to the brim with rusted, corroded, and chipped pieces of anything and everything, Ratchet waded through the scrap, mingling in with the decrepit crowd. Just as they minded their own, he minded his own. Optics focused on finding something useful. Naturally his progress was met with the same as the others: disappointment.

Sounding a sigh, Ratchet stood there for a moment, processing every object, material, and shape around him. Then the pieces began shifting together. “I’m only as disappointed as I make myself.” With a new objective Ratchet began picking up pieces, none of which fit together in any proper or orderly fashion, but with Ratchet’s guidance, he could make them.

Damaged and bent parts were filed away, rusted and cracked layers chipped off. Ratchet cut out the better parts of average scrap metal to fashion a piece that could be used to his means.

After collecting a substantial amount of obvious garbage, Ratchet was able to salvage what good layers he could. And there he sat, welding, cutting, and stitching materials together until he crafted the necessary pieces he previously sat in need of.

“Perfect.” Ratchet smiled, looking at the rough piece of machinery. After some sanding and lubrication, the piece would make an excellent shoulder rotator.

His glee over his creation fell away when he noticed a few curious optics looking his way. And it was then one brave ‘bot approached him, hobbling on the one leg he had. In his grasp he held a tarnished hydraulic presser. The use of it wouldn’t be of much practicality, but with the way he looked at Ratchet, the medibot realized he could innovate, as he had done before.

Waving him over, Ratchet had the ‘bot sitting while he took hold of the part he was cradling. After a short examination he moved to begin cutting the part into pieces. There wasn’t much worth salvaging from the part, but that only spurred Ratchet to sift around and collect various other components to blend together.

It wasn’t the absolute best, but the ligament that Ratchet crafted from the scrap was enough for the ‘bot to stand without support. He was even so happy that he bounced and threw his arms around the medibot. His vocals were shot and nothing but whirls, whistles, beeps, and screeches surged out, however, Ratchet understood his pitch and accepted the gratitude.

After that the ‘bots began lining up, holding up pieces of debris they clutched, reaching out needy hands for Ratchet to help repair them. There was a sudden overwhelming rush, but Ratchet’s programing turned his spark to their needs.

“Alright, this will do.” Ratchet took some of the pieces handed to him. He continued to cut a few up and then scanned the area for further parts. “That piece, sticking out underneath the board. Bring me that.” The ‘bots reacted immediately, and no matter the command, the majority did as told. It was thanks to this cooperation that Ratchet was able to succeed in crafting components for many of them.

His core hummed warmly and his coding whirled. Ratchet was caught up in the fluid flow of satisfaction through his circuitry that he really hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten.

. . .

Megatron didn’t expect Ratchet to be waiting for him after Painkiller patched him up, however, he didn’t expect to find an empty apartment either.

He took a brief scan of the place, and the systematic outcomes that popped up went on to assure Megatron that the doctor had not simply packed up and left. There were still a few of Ratchet’s tools and projects stacked in a corner, as well as his case of shanix and collected energon. He wouldn’t have been that upset with him to leave all of those, would he?

For some time Megatron simply lounged. Refueling and charging. Optics watched the door. No one came in.

Sounding a sigh, Megatron stood up and made the decision to leave. He told himself it was for a simple walk, but he couldn’t understand why he was constantly scanning his surroundings and the ‘bots that passed him by. Well, he could, but he refused to come to terms with it.

It was when he was walking past the usual mass of a junkyard that he noticed something out of place. Looking over, Megatron noticed the odd pattern of the unfortunate ‘bots that were usually viewed littering the area. Instead of the erratic perimeters they kept, these were in orderly lines. How strange.

Moving closer Megatron investigated his curiosity.

Megatron stopped. There, just a distance away was the gathering, all of which ended in the hands of a medibot. A very familiar medibot.

“There you are.” Megatron approached, and Ratchet turned to him. “I might have guessed you’d be one to transform a junkyard into a clinic.” His tone was jesting enough, knowing that he didn’t need to give the medic anymore reason to grow agitated with him.

There wasn’t rebuttal or even a snarky quip. Ratchet only took a look at him whilst he was in the process of welding a piece together and then teetered forward, the object in his hands slipping, and his weld very nearly ramming right into the expectant ‘bot standing before him.

Megatron thanked his reaction timing to the pits. He’d caught the doctor before he scuffed himself further into the trash. “Easy,” he said. “How long have you been at this?”

There were nearby ‘bots with visible signs of Ratchet’s touch. The gleam in their optics was a beautiful happiness, but it also encouraged them to run out and find their friends, bringing them there for the doctor to endlessly fix. No one could attempt such feats.

“No, I’m almost . . .” Ratchet shook Megatron’s hands away, faded optics looking around for the part he’d dropped. “Almost done, just let me . . .” As soon as he picked it up, Megatron took it out of his hand and dropped it.

There was protest in the sounds Ratchet made, and the look on his face one might have taken seriously if the doctor wasn’t as drained as he looked. “You can’t fix them all in one mega-cycle, not before you run out of energy yourself. Come on.” Megatron takes an arm and uses it to help lift the weary mech to his feet. There was a moment he believed Ratchet to purposely be trying to heave his weight downward if just to try and keep himself planted. That just wouldn’t do. “Do you require me to carry you?” Because he would.

Megatron had never seen as venomous a glare from Ratchet as he did right then. He would have laughed, but he worried the doctor might simply reach out and slice into his vitals without a moment’s pause. “Do that and I’ll make sure you stasis for a long time.” For Ratchet’s low reserves, he certainly managed to keep the severe tone with his threat.

The junkyard crowd gave up protest when Megatron moved them out, and many even attempted to follow them so to keep track of their miracle doctor, but Megatron glared them away, threatening to maim and offline should they continue to follow them. It was the lingo in the sub levels. One that the crowd understood.

Hauling Ratchet back to the apartment was an easy task, but sitting him down and getting him to take the offered energon to recharge was another.

“I don’t need it,” Ratchet resisted, pushing away the cube. But just as Ratchet persisted, so too did Megatron.

“Yes. You. Do.” Megatron pushed again and this time made the medic take it. “You’ve been working for cycles, expending only your resources. A noble tryst, doctor, but you have to realize even the grateful will just keep coming to take what you have despite better judgement.”

Ratchet quieted then. Now staring at the cube in his hands.

“Couldn’t fix me and so decided you had to fix someone else?” Ratchet looked toward Megatron. He remembered his upset then, its surface firstly showing along his expressions.

“No, it . . .” Ratchet looked away, an attempt to cool his core. “It wasn’t like that.” He drank the energon then, pouring some energy back into his vitals. When he crumbled the dissolving sealant, he shifted, reaching into his subspace and pulling out a component.

Megatron’s optics widened. “Where did you get that?” It was a shoulder rotator.

“I made it,” Ratchet announced.

“Made it?” Megatron found it hard to grasp, not out of lack of belief for the medibot’s skill, but out of lack of belief that there was any substantial material around to build it with.

With a nod, Ratchet sat it down on the table, looking at. “Not all the scrap in the junkyards is useless. You just gotta know which pieces to pick off.”

“I am . . .” What was the word Megatron was trying to find? “Flattered.”

“Don’t be.” There was Ratchet, turning to finally look at him, a scowl evident. “I did this more for myself. Medical programing and all.” The scowl didn’t last long, and soon Ratchet let his feature’s soften. Picking up the part, he looked determined. “May I?”

How could Megatron say, “no,”? With a nod, Megatron relaxed his arm and watched as Ratchet maneuvered around him, picking up tools and then prepping the device before beginning the disassembly of the gears recently patched up.

There was peace in the silence as Ratchet worked, and Megatron was content to keep it that way. In fact, it was the doctor who spoke up first.

“Despite it all, it was nice; fixing those ‘bots.” Ratchet just pulled out the shoddy gears Painkiller had just welded together and then began the replacement. “I, uh, used to have this vision when I was in the Academy.”

“A dream?” Megatron mused. So, even the “uppers” dreamed.

“Vision, dream, sure, whatever. But, ah, back before I graduated I wanted to one day open a clinic, a free one. Where I could help. Anybody.” Ratchet pulled out his welder and began melting seams together. It didn’t take too long, after which he was tightening sealed bolts with a wrench. “My friend even encouraged me to hold onto it.” Megatron sensed a smile in Ratchet’s vocals, pitches full of affectionate nostalgia. The frequency shifted when the medibot began sliding plating back in place, finished with his task. “But then I graduated, and that was that.”

Megatron shifted his arm, moving his digits and rotating his hand. There was a definite difference. “You’re telling me graduating changed your mind?” He looked at Ratchet then. The mech looked like he was wading through troubling thoughts.

“Not changed, just brought me online to where I fell into the grand scheme of things,” Ratchet replied. He turned, putting his tools away. Megatron could feel the regret seeping out of the medic’s systems, and he didn’t like it.

“Are all Iaconians so monotonously complacent?” Ratchet looked at him. Megatron was glad he was still comfortable enough to listen to him. “I wonder how many more buried their dreams and aspirations all in the sake of being a ‘cog’.”

Megatron watched Ratchet shake his helm, closing off the idea. “If you haven’t noticed, Megatron, most Cybertronians are like that, not just Iaconians. The sub levels really enjoy the idea of anti-functionism that much, don’t they?”

“But what if there was a world like that?” Megatron pressed. “Would it be so bad?”

Ratchet blurted out a laugh. “Our systems would fall into atrophy. No one would know where anyone went.”

“And you’d have your clinic.” That made Ratchet look back at Megatron. “Where ‘bots could go and get the attention they needed without worrying who they had to steal from or what they had to give up just to afford it.”

“You know I had other dreams.” Ratchet’s pitch sounded stressed. He looked reluctant to chase this vision. “And I’d rather stop while I’m ahead before I snuff those too.”

He was upset. Megatron hadn’t intended to touch a wound not yet healed. He had only wished for the doctor to find something positive and cling to it. It was hard to survive in the slums without it.

“Anyway,” Ratchet shifted, motioning toward Megatron’s arm. “That should give you a better grip and maneuverability. Just tell me if you think it’s too tight or loose and I’ll balance it.” Sounding a sigh, he shook his helm and moved to seat himself near his equipment. Crossing his arms he offlined his optics. “I’m going to recharge. Wake me if you need me.”

Megatron let him recharge. Finding his own self too uncomfortable to do the same. And so he pulled out a datapad and began writing to ease all those discomforts into pages.


	4. The Writer

Ratchet booted with a start. He didn’t give his systems the proper span to languidly start up when he realized the currently given time.

“Slag!”

Further prerogative programs were ignored in order to override scheduled data maintenance to then prioritize the task of gathering his work equipment. With this switch of routine he almost forgot to allow himself a cube for the day, and agreeing to that directive put him in a reluctant mood. Seeing his roommate still present put him into a further descending mood.

“Why didn’t you wake me?!” Ratchet’s optics were bright, wide at first, then narrowing with accusation and resentment. “To add to that, why are you even still here?” Ratchet knew for a fact Megatron had early matches that day, and it was already passed mid.

What frustrated the medibot the most was how collected Megatron remained. Irked more by his excuse. “After yesterday I thought it best you get a proper recharge.”

“’Proper recharge’,” Ratchet muttered, finishing his distasteful energon cube before crushing the evaporating sealant. “A proper recharge is six cycles, not . . .” Ratchet once more reluctantly looked at the present time. “Primus, you let me recharge for eleven cycles!”

Megatron looked apologetic, but at the same time he didn’t. He simply sat at the table, drumming his fingers next to his laid datapad, rolling his shoulder rotators. “You looked so peaceful, I thought it’d be a shame to disturb you. And then the objective to meet my morning matches fell undercurrent when I came to the conclusion that you’d be angrier at me for leaving and not waking you than staying and not waking you. I chose the lesser of two evils.”

Ratchet gapped. What kind of reasoning was that? “You’re the most irritating mech I have ever met.”

And then Megatron smiled, like he was proud of the accusation. “Good, it sets me apart.”

With a huff Ratchet moved, giving Megatron a push, nudging him toward the door. “Just get out of here, you’re bleeding funds too!”

Ratchet wasn’t wrong. However, Megatron continued to remain the mech holding resolve. “The latter matches are always higher profile. There’s not much of a loss.”

“Says the mech whose match is in half a cycle,” Ratchet pressed. On his way out he made sure to pick up his cloak, trying to get himself back into the habit of wearing it again. Just in case.

From his lead, Ratchet couldn’t see the displeased look forming on Megatron’s features. Displeasure given, nothing was further voiced. Instead Ratchet simply focused on moving himself down the staircase and into the walkways. Whether Megatron trailed was entirely up to him, Ratchet, on the other hand, wasn’t going to waste another moment.

Moving toward the sub conjunctions was simple enough; that is if traffic was fair. Unfortunately at that time of day the streets tended to be cluttered with midday relief where everyone and their coworker headed to the cafeterial districts. After some minor groans and curses—all of which were pitching from Ratchet’s vocal frequency—they took to walking through the congestion.

Shorter routes were attempted only to be met with disappointment. The longer roads were covered with pedestrians as well. One pathway even led them to a congregational gathering.

“Great.” Ratchet rolled his optics. “Why do they always seem to pop up at the most inopportune times?” He could already pick up the pitches of ‘bots heightening their frequencies so that the crowds could hear the sentences they were reading, they were quoting. Anti-Functionists.

Megatron looked at him, a flash of a smile twitched the corner of his lip plates. “Actually it is quite opportune, for them.”

“Yeah, but not for us,” Ratchet reminded with a cynical look. He then twisted himself, trying to scan for possible escape routes. “There’s got to be a way around all this. We didn’t try B-70 yet. There’s a chance we can transfer on there.” When he pushed to sift through the crowds, Megatron made a noise of protest.

“Wait,” he said, a quick motion of his hand urged the medibot to stay. “I want to hear this.”

Ratchet paused. He even turned to give the silver mech a scrutinizing look but found no optics on him. Instead Megatron was giving his full attention to the reciting paragraphs pouring over those who would listen.

He could see the piqued interest in the way Megatron held himself. Ratchet then remembered how the two of them first met. At a gathering just like this. The medic had to remind himself he hadn’t happened upon Megatron by chance, the gladiator was obviously there to listen, just as he was right now.

“Why should we stand when we can walk, drive, run? We sit and stand as still as they tell us because that’s what we’re supposed to do. Is it? Or is it what they tell us is right?”

Being in the sub levels for as long as Ratchet had, he could see the appeal of those words. It was evident on each bright optic around him. Their cheers and avid expressions were another part of their enthusiastic acceptance.

Call Ratchet patronizing, or call him an “upper” from Iacon, he just didn’t like the fact that writings, teachings like these were leading Cybertronians into a belief that they were holding onto with such a tight grip that you’d have to unscrew their elbow bolts to get them to let go. Such fervency was seen as a waste and pointless in balanced processors like Ratchet’s. He didn’t like it because he knew the end of these ideals would only lead to cold and utter disappointment. And Cybertron’s had enough of that.

 “A dream? I have one, you have one; your neighbors have them in the slums, as do your brethren in the upper cities.” Ratchet’s audials shifted, and for a moment he found himself swaying, as if trying to get a better visual on the group who were standing on crates to echo their vocals out to the crowds. “We are all of the same make, the same model, the same mainframe. We share Cybertron with our dreams, those that we’re told we have no right to have. But who is it that tell us these things? Were they there when these visions were conjured? Were they there when our sparks pulsed with longing? No. They’re there to tell us to stand still, to tell us to bend and twist for them so that they can dream, so that they can reach out their hands to the stars of aspiration and take hold of them. And we are left here . . . to fall off the mountain our bent forms created, back into the crevices where we will fade, our dreams forgotten with our names, our faces, and our memory.”

Ratchet didn’t like the way the words rapped against his spark chamber. And as further excerpt was read he began to move, away.

“Can we leave?” Ratchet tugged at his hood, not caring to notice Megatron’s stare. “I just . . . we’re late.” He didn’t have to explain himself further. He didn’t want to. He was having enough trouble trying to edit the frequencies flowing into his audials in the enthusiastic crowd.

“Yes, of course.” Ratchet could detect the reluctance in Megatron’s vocal pitch. He also sensed a layer of concern, but Ratchet didn’t process that outcome further. Instead, only moving behind the silver mech as he turned and parted the sea of frames to advance toward their first objective.

There wasn’t any relief that came after getting out of that crowd. Ratchet only held his grasp on his hood, lost in his computing.

“Is there something wrong?” That same layer of concern was detected. Ratchet said nothing about it.

“About what?” Ratchet was forced to stop when Megatron became an obstacle. He looked up, looked at that gleam of scarlet looking down at him.

“This, for one,” Megatron said, motioning toward the cloak. “I thought you were past wearing it.” There was a moment of pause. “Are there individuals here that could cause you disturbance? Because if that is in fact the reason then I want to assure you that I’ll be the first to make sure they never disturb you again.”

“No.” Ratchet sounded a sigh. He was still tugging at his hood. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . for the better.” He maneuvered around Megatron’s frame then. “Now, are we just going to stand here all day or are we going to get to work?”

There was a relief in Megatron not pressing further. They were met with enough ridicule at the coliseum that it took extra effort to correct. Even after the official closing, Ratchet was stuck in the campers repairing ‘bots who had been begrudgingly awaiting his skill since that morning.

“Primus, I’m never overcharging again.” Seeing the last patient off with a shake of his helm, Ratchet’s further intentions were to pack up his tools, head back to the apartment, and then fall into an even recharge. The backlog that day was horrendous and his costumers of the rudest kind.

“Finally finished?” Ratchet looked up to see Megatron. The ‘bot had two cubes in his grasp, and ended up tossing one to him.

Thankful. Ratchet settled himself. “You didn’t need to wait.”

Megatron only shrugged off the missed opportunity. “I enjoy our walks back.”

“Yeah?” Ratchet huffed, finally feeling the strain his joint modules were sending warnings over. “Well, this upcoming one will take a while. I was crouched for cycles, my hydraulics are stiff.”

“Oh?” Megatron shrugged off the supposed setback, again. “I could just carr—”

“Ah.” Ratchet held up a digit. “I already warned you once. Don’t make me do it again.”

The laugh rumbling out of Megatron’s chassis was contagious. Ratchet enjoyed it while it lasted, as well as the energon.

“Ratchet, I want to apologize for today.” Ratchet looked up toward Megatron. His cube was three-quarters finished, the rest of the liquid just swirled under the glow of optics shining its color another hue. “It was not my intention to cause any form of grief or stress.” Megatron looked to Ratchet, and the doctor could see the sincerity, as well as the regret.

“I know you meant well,” Ratchet said, leaning his helm against the wall he sat against. “And, besides, the day wasn’t so bad. I’ve had worse.”

“But not here,” Megatron reminded. “I don’t want you to shirk away because of today.”

Ratchet let out a short laugh. “Mask over what you will, Megatron, but it’s the sub levels, I expect some kind of unfairness and misery.”

The silence that followed only served to shake Ratchet’s resolve. He paused, pulling away from the cube he was intaking. He looked back at Megatron then and saw what he expected. Offense.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Ratchet explained.

“But you did, doctor.” Megatron’s tone was raised only in the aspect that there was a defense in his frequency. He was standing, looking at Ratchet with a layer of prejudice that he’d seen all too well before. “You can’t seem to break out of your upper city mold. Wanting to fit in, to hide away in a place not on par with your standards.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Ratchet’s optical panels were bright, zoned. “I don’t expect much because I know I won’t be given much. While I am willing to open my audial receptors to the hardships of the sub levels I too have a right to hide from my troubles. They’re not that much different than yours. So stop acting like they are.”

With fields raised, Ratchet didn’t find further pleasure in finishing his energon. His command panels continued to show messages of needed self-repair, his processors pulled in the catched data in relation to Megatron’s words, and Ratchet’s own response. The data files of which caused the medibot more grief than contentment.

“It’s just . . . you all, a lot of you keep trying to paint over realities.” Ratchet looked back at Megatron. “You don’t say much about it, but I know you disprove of Functionism. Whatever reason you have just gets muddled in the thousands upon thousands of others’ reasons. And call me of ‘upper city mold’ or cog mentality, but I stand away from it. There’s just something _wrong_ in believing in fantasies. And there’s so much of that illusion down here that it makes me . . . sad.” He shook his helm. “It’s like you all are just looking for a nonexistent dimension to slip into and hide away.”

“Aren’t you doing the same?” Despite all of the honest words, Megatron looked less offended than he had before. Reaching out, the larger mech tugged on the cloak hiding Ratchet’s frame and color. “Having come here to just hide away from your realities. The ones eating away at you like an infestation of scraplets.” Those red optics laid a harsh light on Ratchet, but at the same time there was a sort of comfort to them, like understanding, and acceptance. “What then; when they catch up to you? Will you find another cloak, another city?”

“Do you want me to?” There was a look of submission in Ratchet’s gaze. An agreement to leave should the populace and area find him undesirable—like the others had.

That was when Megatron knelt down. The two shared an unspoken conversation for only a short moment before there was further movement, that of which being the gladiator reaching out, his hand hard and scarred from work and battle, but gentle as it took hold of Ratchet’s own heinously-worked servo.

“Be it far from me that I should want you to leave,” Megatron said. His tone soft, as if his previous words had taken out the volume of his pitch. “All that I would ask is for you to see and to understand, and to believe in the possibilities that keep our happiness in place.”

“That might take a while,” Ratchet clicked. He shook his helm, wishing to give a better answer, but there was no greater one than honesty.

Megatron nodded. There was something soothing about the way his thumb rubbed over tensed joint gears. “We all know this, but there’s a comfort in comradery. More so with the ones closest.”

Ratchet pulled his hand away despite the welcomed destress. “You’ve got some time to wait until that common denomination comes.”

Megatron nodded again, understanding in his field. “I’m a patient ‘bot.”

“You say that now.” Ratchet forced out a chuckle and stood himself up, patting his cloak from the dirty residue of his patients and camper ground.

There was an uneasiness he could feel in his spark chamber, yet the run diagnostics revealed there was no reason for concern. A sensation similar to what he experienced earlier. Ratchet didn’t quite understand it, all because he knew what it was—hope. And it had no right appearing inside him.

“Well, are we gonna get out of here? Any later and we might as well just settle in for the night.” Ratchet forced another chuckle, covering himself more.

“You might have formed an affinity for this place, good doctor, but I am far from such agreements.” Megatron stood, nodding toward the exit hall. Ratchet’s smile that formed was genuine that time, nothing to hide but the unbidden chortles.

“I’m not _that_ settled in,” Ratchet defended his stance, moving to take the lead.

The smiles were less stressed, their expressions less forced. Their pace was balanced and even, more of a stroll than a race back to the apartment. Kaon’s sub levels at that cycle certainly wasn’t quiet or peaceful, but between Ratchet and Megatron, that’s what it was.

No sound, no conversation expect for the unspoken. There was nothing needed to be said, to be voiced aloud, not when it was very much heard and understood in the silence of their companionship.

. . .

When Orion wasn’t working long hours at his office, patrolling, responding to distress signals, conducting his own investigations and interviews, and grouping with his equally investigating entourage of friends, he was found offering condolence sculptures to the grave of a femme who offlined too soon.

It was the sixth he laid down. His own among many set out by those in mourning of the life lost, and the others that went with her. When Orion managed to hold himself there and face the inner turmoil he felt over her and her litter’s extinguishing, the one prevalent emotion was of sorrow. In that justice was mishandled, so too was his sorrow a greater part of his longing for his lost friend.

After all the time that’s past and with how little his own investigations seemed to progress, Orion couldn’t stop the disdain he constantly felt for himself. He knew he wasn’t the only one to share in such a spiraling algorithm, but as a ‘bot whose casted category was to defend the defenseless and ensure that proper law and sentence was given to those in line of it, he felt like a failure to his caste. A feeling more than troubling.

He worried over Ratchet, wondering if he ever found a place to settle. Scenarios of his friend’s demise from angry mobs, infection, or malnourishment constantly ran through his processors and it tormented the officer to the point he couldn’t recharge without understanding it would be a fitful rest. Despite the ability to trust in his friend’s steadiness, Orion’s worry was crippling.

There was no intention to remain at the grave for long. However Orion’s motions to leave was halted upon noticing a small group coming up to offer similar condolences for the grave.

“Senator Dai Atlas?” Orion was not only surprised to see his visit to the graveyard, but to that very grave.

The Senator stood with three escorts. They paid Orion no form of attention, but it was Dai Atlas who moved his red glare toward the young officer.

“Did you know this femme?” Orion wondered.

“I knew her as much as the other officials did,” Dai Atlas spoke, his line of sight looking over the carved names and dates, and the collected memorabilia. “It is common for senators to give alms in respect of her relation.” Though, it was more common for said senators to do so the moment of the burial. “But here I am, finding myself returning more than I should.” Orion noticed a faint smile, one of remorse painting the senator’s features. “Perhaps because I view her as the victim of injustice than murder.”

Orion paused for a moment, processing the words and the sincerity of the senator’s frequencies. “My lord?” Did he also believe something different?

Dai Atlas looked away from the grave, his gaze falling upon the officer. “And what is your reason? She was of no relation to you besides sympathy. No, her connection resides in the one accused of her end.”

Every time someone noticed, realized, or understood Orion’s position with the accused medibot, he felt the pangs of shame bubble inside his energy converters. He refused to give into them, however; given his own belief. But constantly fighting it down began to take a toll on him.

“I . . .” Orion stood his ground, just as he had with Proteus. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t stand beside you, not when I don’t believe Ratchet—the accused medic—is responsible for her offline.” Yet Orion still felt the sadness as he gazed at her tomb. A life snuffed too soon.

“And that is where you misstep,” Dai Atlas replied, his attention still holding the frame of the grave before them, but keeping mind of Orion’s presence and responses. “There is ample evidence of her demise being because of that medibot, but not necessarily in direct correlation.”

The senator’s words were hinged with cryptic frequencies, and Orion wondered if he was deciphering it properly. “Lord Dai Atlas, do you possibly believe that Ratchet was . . .?”

“There is no worth in my beliefs,” Dai Atlas said. He looked at Orion then and that was when the younger saw the weather and wear. The senator looked exhausted, and more than a little disappointed—no doubt with the way their society was teetering. “So long as my brethren harken to their own desires and profit, what becomes of my own morality will just remain ineffective scramble.”

“So, then, you didn’t agree.” Was Orion really understanding this all properly? Was the Senator Dai Atlas telling him his lack of faith in the judicial system, and his conviction in Ratchet’s own trial? “Lord Dai Atlas, if that’s true then why . . . why not at least fight?”

Dai Atlas’ smile was small and quick. There was some sort of fleeting hope even as he looked at Orion Pax. “I’m much too old to follow such ambitions. I can understand why it sounds appealing for the likes of you, but I digress.” He looked away, back toward the tomb. “I’ve long known there would be more victims like her. And understanding that my position wouldn’t help staunch such proceedings only enlightened me deeper into the not-so-hidden truth. All that I’m able to do is stand here, offering condolences, and hope there won’t be another despite knowing better.”

“What you’re telling me is that you’ve given up.” Orion’s statement made the mech turn to him. “You sit so high above us all, knowing what goes on behind all the edicts and sanctions, and you just let them run all over you.”

A short laugh caught in Dai Atlas’ nasal modules. He shook his helm. The look he gave Orion Pax simulated those he’s seen on the likes of his superiors. “I can guarantee if given the opportunity to find yourself in so prized a seat you would do the same.”

“Forgive me for improper words, but we don’t necessarily know each other well, Lord Dai Atlas.” Orion wouldn’t move from his stance, and clash of rank or not, he would remain true to his early beliefs.

Nodding, Dai Atlas agreed. “A fair enough assessment. And a bold claim for one so young.” He then held out a respecting hand. “Your designation?”

“Orion.” Orion took the offered hand, shaking. “Orion Pax.”

It was within the next moment the Senator turned to leave, his escort following. “You want to make someone like Proteus regret mistreating your friend?” He nodded back toward the femme’s tomb. “Start by understanding the ones who knew her. You’ll find they weren’t much different from yourself.”

With Senator Dai Atlas’ exit, a new roster of witnesses came to the forefront of Orion Pax’s investigative list. And with respective farewells, he left to locate these individuals.

. . .

Lately, schedules began to clash.

While it was Ratchet, or even Megatron, who opted to wait for the other to finish their duties for the day before accompanying the other on the drive back to the apartment, not every day could be met with desired precision. With the Gladiatorial Games growing in popularity, there’ve been gladiator ambassadors from other cities, and the Games have been running longer than previously perceived. Higher profiles were often moved earlier, which resulted in Megatron’s duties ending prematurely than usual.

In the beginning Megatron showed his desire to wait for his medic friend to finish his repair duties, but the cycles dragged on farther than was reasonable for the gladiator’s new schedule. He needed proper recharge and a fixed energy intake pattern, both of which couldn’t be accomplished unless he went his way. Despite the missed company, this did give Ratchet ample opportunities to take his time returning to the apartment, helping those he bumped into on his way back.

Ratchet tried not to let his after-work projects take away from his own self priorities, but there were some days he did get carried away. Like today. He’d stayed out cycles than he should have, and the gathered needy urged him to carry on with their much needed repairs. Declining them scrambled his programming, not something he enjoyed.

When the alerting notification popped up on his monitors for the seventh time, Ratchet didn’t snooze it away. Instead he forced himself from the gathering and hurried back to the apartment. If he was lucky he would be able to garner in at least four cycles of sleep. He’s had worse.

Not that he was crafted for stealth, Ratchet tried to his best ability to keep the noise of his entrance to a minimum. He understood Megatron would currently be in recharge, and it wouldn’t be fair that he took away proper rest from the mech because of his tardiness.

Given his consideration, Ratchet still found Megatron outside his berth, sitting at the table, leaned over and stasis. Not the first he’s found him in so precarious a position, it still bought a chuckle to Ratchet’s vocal processors. Setting down his tool case, Ratchet moved over to where the silver mech sat, wondering if he should attempt to move him into a better position. No doubt he’d wake with one mean crank in several locations.

In the end Ratchet chose not to disturb him. He wasn’t certain when Megatron fell into recharge and hoped it was falling along the lines of proper time. He had his own cycles he needed for the coming day’s duty.

The sight of a datapad caught Ratchet’s optic. Nestled snuggly underneath Megatron’s forearm. Not quite ideal for something with a fragile frame.

“You keep forgetting how heavy you are?” Ratchet muttered with a shake of his helm as he carefully slid the device out from underneath Megatron’s bulk and gave it a scan. It was still intact, surprisingly.

It was from there Ratchet saw some of Megatron’s writings. He knew the mech enjoyed the time he could get to do so, but Ratchet’s never quite read any of the things he’s written. More than curious, and once again snoozing the alert from the pressing time and fleeting recharge cycles, Ratchet took a look into some of the writings.

Poetry. And Megatron was pretty good at it. Ratchet found himself smiling, a glance over toward the mech’s unmoving figure before humor tickled his circuitry. A gladiator who wrote poetry. Ratchet’s seen a lot of things since his banishment.

The quality of the poems touched Ratchet to the point he wasted an entire cycle just reading through them. Sitting at the table next to Megatron’s sleeping form, Ratchet swiped through page after page, enjoying the words his friend managed to craft together in some of the most endearing, amazing, and beautiful ways. It was a shame he was born into the manual caste, Ratchet believed he would have been quite welcomed in places like Polyhex, or even Praxus. Iacon, Ratchet wasn’t so sure, those uptight afts were so far up in space they wouldn’t know what learned talent was if it blasted them in the facial plates with ion cannons.

Perhaps one day Megatron would let him document his creative process. Until then Ratchet would just have to tease him about it. With a low laugh, Ratchet’s resolve was found and he moved to turn the datapad off. However, he accidentally pressed the wrong command, and instead of shutting off the device the files holding the poems closed, returning to their folder and leaving the background documents exposed to curious scanners.

That was when Ratchet saw the other writings.

At first Ratchet brushed off the documents as something copied, something saved. He knew Megatron, and that he was a fan of Anti-Functionism and the writings it stemmed from. Of course he’d happen upon some form of loyalty to the cause in the silver mech’s personal files.

Ratchet wanted to just close the pad. He’d intruded for long enough. However his attention was kept and his rational processors convinced when he saw one incomplete document, the cursor still pulsing as if waiting to be finished, to be further written.

No.

“Mm, you’re back late.” Megatron shifted, his systems lagging after booting out of recharge. He sat up, his optical panels flickering for a moment. Ratchet could tell there was a hanging jest in his pitch, one that was abandoned when that red gaze fell upon the opened datapad in Ratchet’s hands. That was when Ratchet came to the conclusion of the truth, after watching Megatron’s features shift with unease.

“It was you.” Ratchet shook his helm. “It’s been you this entire time.”

Despite the evident worry, Megatron didn’t look ashamed of the discovered fact. Disappointed, perhaps, but certainly not in himself. “I suppose it was bound to come out eventually. I didn’t necessarily expect it to be this way.”

“And what way would it have been?” Ratchet finally sat the pad down. All concerns for his dwindling cycles of recharge vanished. He’d never been more awake than he was now. “Maybe after you came out of anonymity and these misguided slaggers constructed a shrine of you?”

Megatron sounded a sigh. “They are not misguided, Ratchet.” His tone was deep, defending. “And I did not write for a following. I wrote for myself, to just express the woes I’ve been dealt and the injustice. It was society that brought out my peers.”

“And now you egg them on.” Ratchet pursed his lip plates. He let a moment pass until he was overcome with self-brought grief. “It’s just . . . ugh, don’t you ever read your articles?”

“Do you?” Megatron’s stance was strong and still. A fair point that Ratchet collected.

There were a few moments of silence, a few moments to stare, even glare, at one another. “Do you see how your writings are effecting the ‘bots down here?”

“Of course I do,” Megatron replied. Not that Ratchet needed reminded that the mech enjoyed attending such gatherings.

“And you don’t see anything wrong with it?” Because Ratchet could see a list of things wrong. Of which he’s stated before.

“Define ‘wrong’.” Megatron crossed his arms, his optics gleaming a scrutinizing beam toward the medibot. “Wrong as in they’re finally seeing the degradation of our systems? Wrong as in they want a better life for themselves, their friends, their families? Wrong as in they dream of a world where they can go into any occupation without prejudice of their caste and mold? What is so _wrong_ , doctor?”

“Yes, but what if others get hurt?” That had been Ratchet’s main reservation from the movement.

“Have they?” Megatron asked. No, they have not.

“Fine, fine.” Ratchet sounded his own sigh, his digits drumming against the table’s frame. “So why is it you don’t show yourself? A fear of crowds?”

“The crowds from the pits are much different than the crowds in the streets,” Megatron said. So, he was unnerved. Still, Ratchet couldn’t help but sound a laugh.

“Honestly? You’re a riot in the arena. I’ve seen the way you manipulate them into betting for you.” Megatron’s actions and words held power over the raging audience. Ratchet didn’t understand why the mech was faltering in his stance now.

“The gladiatorial audience is _not_ the audience of my writings.” Ratchet could see the offense in Megatron’s features, and the wary pitch in his tone. It shook Ratchet’s frame for a moment, and after properly opening his audial receptors, he began to understand Megatron’s reasoning. “You think me so little removed from my work that a brute of a gladiator would turn to the unfortunate of the sub levels and rouse them into becoming revolutionaries.”

Ratchet paused to examine those words. “No, it’s not . . .” Maybe. Perhaps that was, and still is, the image the medic keeps conjuring when talk of the movement comes about. Shifting in his seat, Ratchet cleared his cluttered vocal module. “I didn’t mean anything like that. And I’m sorry if that’s what it seemed like.” His optics glanced down toward the datapad. He couldn’t resist taking it back up. “But what about here, where you said that ‘bots ought to fight with their circuitry and hardwiring’? That sounds like a call to arms to me, and I’d be careful at that. Even Kaon’s ‘uppers’ would find you, and the rest of the movement, on unbalanced foundation for suggesting.”

Megatron nodded. “I admit that some of my words are passionate, but if you care to move away from instant processing to a more rational assessment then you’ll see I’m just calling for they, as individuals, to keep themselves and above all protect their lives.”

“Again, not everyone is going to see it that way,” Ratchet reminded.

“A point I appreciate.” It was then Ratchet watched Megatron pull out a smile. His optics glanced toward the datapad and the shown files for a moment before melding their light with Ratchet’s. “You know, I could always use an editor.”

A beat passed before Ratchet threw his head back with a laugh. “Oh, you are out of your proper component alignment if you think I want to be a part of this.”

“You don’t have to be,” Megatron assured. “Perhaps a censor of sorts. Just a voice to tell me where I overstep.”

“There are a lot of moments that you do.” Ratchet looked back down at the files. “Like right there, oh, and there as well.” He caught himself. Looking at Megatron he could see the expectance and Ratchet finally put the datapad down and stood up. Marching toward his corner. “No, no. You are going to go before those people and apologize for misguiding them.”

“I won’t apologize for giving them hope.” Ratchet turned back to Megatron, just a shy pace from his designated corner. There was conviction in Megatron’s optics, in his stance and position. “You know now, Ratchet, how damnably hard it is to even survive down here. What is so wrong with offering a vision for those on the edge of breaking and giving up?”

Having come to the apartment after fixing up many of those mentioned ‘bots, Ratchet felt those words rattle against his spark chamber and tickle his medical programming. And it was nice; to be included with those living underneath Kaon.

“A revolution?” Megatron shook his helm. “It is far from it. At the most it’s a comfort, even for the fading. But if that is all it is then I would rather they offline with a smile on their face than perish in the misery of starvation and decay. Wouldn’t you? As a doctor, wouldn’t even you?”

In the quiet moments Ratchet debated with himself. Sensors pulsing from his core differed from the pragmatic currents shifting from his mainframe. He processed the words and dissected the intentions. He predicted multiple outcomes and weighed the pros and the cons of such visions.

“I would want them to pass in peace.” Ratchet nodded in agreement. “But some of your writings are so ambitious that it sounds expectant. And no ailing ‘bot could ever find themselves in the position to feel any such thing.” He looked back toward the datapad and then just a little ways over to Megatron who motioned to the vacant chair.

“You’ll find me a good student, doctor.”

Ratchet told himself that it was the submission in Megatron’s frequency that spurred him to return, to pick up that datapad and read it over. He held his glare and huffed. “As will you.” Ratchet then sat the pad down and slid it over to Megatron. “Practice makes perfect. Read to me and I’ll tell you my thoughts on the article as well as your presentation.”

Megatron looked wary, but did as he was told. The two stayed up all night debating, listening, and correcting word usage and paragraph structure. Megatron made sure not to stray too far from his original spark in the matter of his writings, but equally harkened to Ratchet’s opinions and suggested changes. The outcome of which made him more proud than his previous publications.

It was the following evening that anti-functionists gathered to recite the piece. Their numbers clogging streets and walkways. Their voices rising up to mix into the garble of sub level business.

Ratchet and Megatron happened to be in line to order their fifth quarter meal when the outbreak happened. Even the neutral ‘bots they were surrounded by leaned in to listen. Megatron being no different.

“They really don’t waste a klik once it’s published, do they?” Ratchet stood with his arms crossed, listening, but biased. No matter his relation with the author.

“No, they don’t.” Looking up at Megatron, Ratchet could see the mech’s given attention. The look in his optics mirrored many of those listening, like he too was hearing it for the first time and intaking every cherished word.

It was only a few kliks later that Ratchet noticed a more honed awareness in the mech. As the author shook off the high of his piece’s popularity, Megatron looked to him, understanding in his features.

“We can go, if you want.” Ratchet was endeared by the consideration, but even still he felt some sort of guilt . . . now that he knew. He waited a few moments, just to see the crowd’s reaction to the shift in the writing’s tone. It was obvious that a few avid listeners picked up on it, but Ratchet found himself standing in surprise by how quickly the message was received and accepted.

“Well now.” Ratchet crossed his arms. There was a smile on his face, even amongst the cluttered area. “This is an article I can enjoy listening to.”

There was approval in the glance he gave Megatron, and from the look on Megatron’s face, the acceptance was more than that ‘bot could ever want. Ratchet really had never seen a mech stand so tall and squared, planting himself right next to him and listening to the rest of the reciting.

Megatron was right; topics, no matter their controversy or accepted enlightenment, were better with agreeing company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not too familiar with Megatron's autobiographical collection Towards Peace. Obviously, most of the writings in this story are made up, as previously warned. So, sorry to anyone who wanted to actually see them in here. I am much too lazy to do THAT much research, hur, hur, sorry.   
> Also, another sorry for the slow pace of this chapter. Nothing much happened, but at the same time it did. Progression, peoples! Next chapter's pace should be better. Send the love! See you until then!


	5. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of the reviewers. I really do enjoy seeing your guys’ thoughts. It definitely gets me motivated to start writing the next chapters. So, please, keep them coming so I can stay faithful to this fic! XD

“Upper Kaon.” It was the third time Ratchet said it, as if he couldn’t believe his own voice. With a shake of his helm and an impressed smile on his lips plates the medic continued to lay out his tools, categorizing them by importance and frequency. “No doubt these instruments will look like protoform toys up there. But . . .” Wrapping them securely and stuffing them in a case, he then reached over toward a servo-sized box. His collected funds. “I don’t see why I can’t browse the shops. An octo-steel grafter would be nice. And a thermal weld needle.”

The laughs that came from Megatron’s chassis always sounded pleasant. And he was full of them today as he stood checking his plating and hydraulic pressure. “I stand the one invited to a match in the upper levels, yet you’re the most enthusiastic.”

Ratchet scoffed. “And you aren’t? They constructed a brand new coliseum just for these upcoming games. The crowds that it’ll gather. It’s going to be stocked full of nobility. You do well enough, and you’ll really make a name for yourself.”

“My pedestal is already a height here,” Megatron reminded.

“But this is upper Kaon, Megatron,” Ratchet replied back. He was standing now, red hands on red pelvic plates. “The exposure’s really going to ramp up your revenue.” Not that Ratchet’s ever traversed Kaon’s level districts, but, assuming most city-states were similar, he could rest assured his assumptions were correct.

With a hum, Megatron mulled over Ratchet’s visions. Nodding, he motioned toward the doctor. “Same goes for you?” With a few taps on his datapad, Megatron monitored the lineup for the scheduled fight. “Hydrau, Showdown; they’re some high profile gladiators. Who knows, you may get a chance to repair them.”

“Or, it’ll be you.” Ratchet snickered to himself, ignoring the way the silver mech frowned. “No, I’ll be at the shops. I’ll make sure I’m there after the fight, just in case, but I’d rather stay far out of the limelight.” As if to verify his point he picked up his cloak, the tacky thing.

It was Megatron’s huff that pulled Ratchet’s attention back toward him just in time to see those red optics roll. “Are you going to hide under that thing forever?”

“As long as my reputation precedes me, yes, I will,” Ratchet stated as-matter-of-factly, leaving hardly enough room for argument. He stood in further silence, wrapping himself up and taking hold of his tool case. He moved to the door, stopping only to look back at his companion with expectance.

Megatron was still for a moment, observing, processing. When he approached he didn’t motion to leave, instead he looked at Ratchet and asked, “Did you really do it?”

There was a slight waver in the color of Ratchet’s optical panels, but within the next moment, the medic’s guard and field rose. He shifted if only to slide further out the doorway.

“None of that matters anymore.” Ratchet’s movement down the stairs left no opening to delve further into said topic. Megatron was polite and kept the silence to uphold the peace between the both of them as they made their way up from the sub levels, even though both knew that a time needed to come where it all could be laid out and understood and accepted. Ratchet just wasn’t ready.

Ratchet was, however, ready to explore upper Kaon. The moment they stepped off the lift the entire atmosphere seemed to change. Not that Kaon could outright compare to the likes or Iacon or even Praxus, it was still volumes above its sub levels. The topside ‘bots actually walked properly, had all their compartments, sported decent paint jobs, and possessed high scoring vocabularies.

Primus, Ratchet’s missed the city life.

“You could fit right in up here,” Megatron noted. The bedazzle in Ratchet’s optic panels no doubt was a humorous sight, especially for a high-bred Iaconian.  

“What?” Ratchet glanced up for a moment before shaking his helm. “Oh, no, that’s . . . that’s a hope too much.” It was then another sight caught his attention. “There it is. Primus, now _that’s_ a coliseum.”

When the Games began they were little more than betted street fighting. When its popularity began to expand past a street corner the arenas were constructed. Shoddy and unstable places that were easy to tear down and reconstruct. Easier to move if needed.

The coliseum Ratchet found himself at longer employment was a little sturdier, but he wouldn’t deny he’s found more than a few cracks in the foundation. His warnings more than oft looked over. As he suspected.

Now that the Gladiator Games were coming into more public light the city-states were keen on nurturing their own warriors and sending them to best other challengers. This tactic was so well received that even now the upper cities were plotting stabilizing the games into their cultures. An exciting aspect that would give many of the hard-working gladiators the opportunity to work themselves out of the gutters. Megatron especially.

The coliseum the two were standing before was of the grandest size either had the privilege of seeing. The materials were all crafted with the intention on the structure staying upright for many seasons. That alone spoke volumes of its intention.

“And this is where we part,” Ratchet said before the doors.

Megatron paused himself, looking down at the medic. “You won’t even come in to see the interior with me?”

“No need. I’ll see it when the games are over,” Ratchet reasoned before he jammed his thumb back behind them. “The shops are calling my name.”

Megatron nodded, understanding. “Very well. Don’t be long, I don’t intend to let this audience think the sub levels are weak.”

“Yeah, well, if you can end your opponents in four cycles, call me impressed.” Ratchet said, watching Megatron move toward the under level entrance. The stationed security there only did a brief check before opening the doors for the silver mech.

“Oh, so if I manage that in three cycles can I call you a fan?” Megatron’s silly brow waggle and pompous grin made Ratchet want to throw his arch-wrench at him. But he didn’t, because it wasn’t polite to do so in the city. He’d just have to do it later.

With an optic roll and a huff later, Ratchet didn’t meet the remark with anything but his back. Moving away from the coliseum, Ratchet quickly pulled his itemized list out of his internal files and made quick work of the shopping district.

“Two cycles past mid-quarter. His match should be starting by now.” Ratchet looked around, wondering where he might be able to find a monitor. With such a high gathering, he assumed the fights would be broadcast in many street corners.

There was an advanced parts shop that Ratchet moseyed into. Not only had the store carried a few tools pending on his list, but there was an array of monitors stacked along the walls, a majority of which were tuned into the live Gladiatorial Games.

“Do you have any thermal weld needles?” Ratchet watched the clerk rack his processor for a moment before moving into the back. It was at the counter where the medic waited and watched.

From where he stood Ratchet could see the monitors. And the position of the high res recording cameras built into the stadium made it possible to see nearly every angle of the match. Ratchet had stood there so mesmerized that he hadn’t properly paid attention to the clerk’s return.

“Eh-hem, your thermal weld needle, sir?” Ratchet dragged his gaze away and took up the tool, examining it for good measure. In this process his line of sight turned back to the monitors. Just then he watched the championing warrior of Kaon’s sub levels shatter his opponent’s optical panels with a well-placed knee ram.

Despite the obvious lean in Megaton’s standing, it was thanks to those high res recorders that Ratchet was able to notice some injuries; an indented fore plane plate, and a shattered rotator cap covering. Someone tried to go for the knee joints.

“Do you have titanium spring thread here as well?” Ratchet really didn’t need it, but knew that the component would make it easier to hold down rotator caps.

As the clerk nodded and once more departed into the supply room in search for it, Ratchet watched the match with analytical interest. Subconsciously his list began to grow with items and tools that could become useful in the future.

“That’ll be seven hundred and fifteen shanix.” Just as the clerk placed the roll of titanium thread down and announced the price, Ratchet’s attention fell far away from the playing match.

“Seven hundred and fifteen?” Ratchet gapped, absolutely flabbergasted. “Why is it that price? Why, back in Iacon this would have easily equaled, to at the most, three sixty.”

“This isn’t Iacon,” the clerk said with a monotonous pitch in his vocals. “Take it or leave it.”

Pulling out his coin canister from his subspace, Ratchet groaned and mumbled, taking out the amount asked for. “Fine, but I want a receipt. You can be sure I’ll return every single one if I find them lacking.”

The hiked prices postponed many of the items on Ratchet’s list, as did the time notification. Megatron’s match was over. And so Ratchet left to the coliseum, and from there he got to see the underwing of the stadium.

The hallways were clean and fully lit, the door systems worked in quick time, the weapons hanger was huge and accommodated even the largest of frames—not to mention the updated array of battle gear, but the one place that spurred Ratchet’s motors was the medbay. It was beautiful. Nothing like the facilities back in Iacon, but a far cry from the substitute storage room Painkiller used down in the sub levels.

It was there he found Megatron.

“There you are, I was just talking about you.” Megatron, though standing and who appeared to be in decent proper functions, waved Ratchet in. It was from there he motioned to the two mechs he had faced in the arena. “My adversaries. Both fought valiantly.”

Showdown seemed friendly enough, even given the fact that his arm was hanging by sparking sensory wires. It was Hydrau who looked more than displeased with his predicament. He was holding his dangling optical panel, cracked and flickering.

“I hope you don’t mind mending them,” Megatron looked at Ratchet expectantly. “There are fine medics in employment here, but I promised none would be able to compare to you.” He nodded with a proud smile while the other mechs looked at Ratchet with wary gazes.

“No, it’s fine,” Ratchet finally replied, coming closer to the examination table and plopping down his tool case, along with the items he recently purchased. “I didn’t know you’d be done this fast.” He got to work on Hydrau first. There was just something that disturbed Ratchet about a dangling optic.

“I gave you no reason to doubt me,” Megatron explained.

“Heh, you should have seen him out there. Now there’s a mech who can fight.” Showdown ignored the obvious pain jolting from the stressed sensors and smiled on, as if in comradery with Megatron. “But, next time I can promise you’ll get more outta me.” He held out his left hand in a show of respect.

Megatron took the offered hand. “I’ll expect no less.”

The moment Ratchet was finished with the other two the media reporters came in. There were flashing lights, upheld cam recorders, and about eleven or twelve ‘bots all raising pitches to try and be the first to ask the reigning gladiator champion their conceived questions.

Ratchet let out a huff. His hand held his welder and the other the titanium thread, ready to see to Megatron’s maintenance. Not that he could get to him now.

“Megatron, you’ve maintained the highest record in the sub levels of Kaon, do you think you’ll be able to continue to keep that?”

Megatron’s smile was smug that time. “You saw the match, didn’t you? You tell me.”

“You come from the gladiatorial pit down in sub-4, can you confirm or deny any certain training method being taught down there?”

“Neither,” Megatron replied. “It’s the method of survival. Not every ‘bot is capable of learning it.”

“Is it true you were once classified as a miner?”

Megatron nodded. “That was a long time ago.”

“Megatron, where do you see yourself in the near future?”

“Mm, some place with a view.”

The questions carried on before it was Megatron who had to shoo the social updaters away. He sent apologetic field waves toward Ratchet, but the medic didn’t accept them and only minded his own when he finally managed to finish his minor repairs.

“Quite the popular one, aren’t ya.” Ratchet’s chuckle was one of annoyance as he leaned back, winding the titanium thread back together and putting it away with the rest of his tools.

“Did you know Senator Decimus was in the crowd today?” Megatron looked down at Ratchet with an oddly solemn stare. “He’s the reason I had to turn to gladiatorial winnings to sustain myself.”

Ratchet remembered the minor’s strike when Senator Decimus supported and put in the automatic systems. The protest eventually faded away, like many things in Cybertron that just couldn’t keep up with the times. He wondered if Megatron had been one of those.

“Well, I think I put on a good enough show for him.” Megatron reached into his subspace and pulled out a credit. The number of funds he received for that day’s winning made Ratchet’s brow plates rise. “What do you say to a night out on the town?”

“I was going to warn you about the crazy prices here, but with that kind of credit, why the slag not?” Ratchet’s smile matched Megatron’s and the two sauntered through the districts, taking their time to enjoy the sites, the fuel, and the entertainment.

More than a few times they were stopped by fans who were more than eager to snag a snapshot with the gladiator. All of which made Ratchet laugh.

“It’s funny; seeing you have such a gathering,” Ratchet mentioned as they sat themselves in an amphitheater stadium to take in the latter day entertainment.

“I don’t see you saying that about the fans of my writing,” Megatron mentioned.

Ratchet processed the differences for a moment. “Oh, well, that’s different.”

“How so?” Megatron inquired, one brow plate rose in curiosity.

“Well, you know, for obvious reasons,” Ratchet responded back. “These fans are just groupies of the sort, and the ones that back your writings, well, they . . . they’re more devoted I would say. Even though they haven’t seen you, heard you actually speak to them, there’re still there, waiting for another article.” Ratchet didn’t mean to sound impressed by the movement whatsoever. He still had some major reservations about them. But lately, as he began to help with Megatron’s voice, he couldn’t help but lend an audial just as much as those ambitious fools.

“That reminds me.”

Ratchet turned his attention away from comparison and focused it now on the datapad Megatron was pulling out of his subspace. Did he have that with him this whole time?

“I managed to finish the fifteenth paragraph, if you’d like to take a look?”

It all had become common now; as Ratchet reached over and took up the device and immediately began scanning through prose and topic. He was Megatron’s unofficial-but-might-as-well-be-titled-official editor. One with a sensitive optic. Naturally the medic continued to express his distaste for the movement, but he has yet to stop himself from nipping his attachment to said movement’s creator.

One day, maybe.

“No, I would do without this part,” Ratchet said, moving his digit over and highlighting the few sentences he found himself at odds with. “It makes the point sound like they’re supposed to armor up and get ready for a battle. I’d end it differently.”

“You think so?” Megatron looked curiously at the highlighted words, taking the datapad back and mulling over it. “I suppose I should have known better than to write it before the match today.”

“Today?” Ratchet backpedaled. “You wrote all of that before your fight?”

Megatron nodded, and then rolled his shoulders. “What? I can’t control when inspiration hits.”

Ratchet could only shake his helm, he found himself doing this often. “Primus.”

“Is that . . . some of _his_ writings?”

Ratchet noticed a mech on the row above them, looking down at Megatron’s datapad with vivid interest. For a moment Ratchet wondered if the ‘bot had discovered Megatron’s pastime, but a few kliks later it became evident that he was just a loyal supporter wondering if he was looking at fellows.

With a nod Megatron handed the datapad to the ‘bot. “It is,” he said. “What do you think?”

Ratchet was wary with letting another read an incomplete article, but Megatron’s smile was proud enough, and more than excited as he watched the ‘bot read his work.

“Wow, this must be new. I don’t think I’ve read this one before.” The mech was orange in color. Of common mold, but well kept. An average citizen of Kaon. “Say, aren’t you Megatron, the gladiator?”

Megatron nodded again. “Happen to see my match earlier?”

The mech nodded enthusiastically. “You bet I did. You were incredible. I’ve been really missing out not seeing your previous seasons. But, let’s face it, I’m not the right kind of ‘bot to travel into the sub levels.”

“A shame.” Megatron nodded toward the datapad. “There’s quite the number who are fans down there.”

“And you’re one of them.” The mech was all smiles. “It really is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and just to know you enjoy his writings as well, oh, it warms my core.”

“Not to sound presumptuous, but I wouldn’t gather there were those keen to the writings up here.” Megatron examined the mech’s movements. He was friendly enough, but with a glance toward Ratchet even he could see the signals to stay cautious about who he spoke to, and of the subjects he delved into.

“Yeah? Oh, no, believe me there are a lot up here that enjoy these writings. I even have some cousins in Tyger Pax that head a club where they sit and read these. They’re the curriculum of the future.”

“Quite the vision you and your relatives have.” Megatron commended him, holding out a hand. “If Cybertron had more ‘bots like you I believe we’d all live in a better world.”

The mech shifted from the flattery, taking Megatron’s hand with eagerness and then handing him back his datapad. “You have a way with words. I would love to hear your opinions on the outspoken matters someday.”

“Well, if I’m ever called back level you’re always welcome to come by after my matches to have these discussions,” Megatron suggested while the other looked quite agreeable to the idea.

“That sounds wonderful.”

The only time that the two were silenced was when the groups of entertainers took stage and followed along with their performances and routines. After that enjoyment Megatron and the orange mech bid fond farewells while Ratchet remained in silence. Eventually Megatron took notice of the silence, and of the look on Ratchet’s face.

“So then, it’s a date.” Megatron’s optical lights faded for a moment in process before he tilted his head in confusion to Ratchet’s comment and the half annoyed, half teasing smile on his lip plates. Ratchet only rolled his optics. “Look, if you wanted me to, I could have made myself scarce while the both of you went off on the wiles of your writings.”

Then things began to click. Megatron nodded, a smile forming. “Ah, is there a pitch of jealousy I detect?”

Ratchet snorted, crossing his arms and keeping them there. “You’re a little bold to think I’d be jealous of _you_ , Megatron.”

“Not of me, but that mech.” Megatron’s optics gleamed with a strange light, like accusation. It made Ratchet uncomfortable, but all in the same time it made him frustrated.

Ratchet’s response wasn’t understandable with all of the hitches, stutters, and unfinished words he sputtered out. His core was hot with annoyance and now all he wanted was to get back to the sub levels and retire for the day. He was starting to ache in places, his coin canister was horrendously light, and he was due for a recharge.

“You been in level Kaon for less than a day and suddenly you’re one of the populace,” Ratchet muttered, trying to ignore that red gleam still shining on him. “Look, it’s late, I just want to get back. I’ve got appointments in the morning, I need to help Painkiller sort out his inventory—”

Megatron’s laugh heated Ratchet’s core more, and he assumed it was out of spite. But he never really had it cool down as fast as it had when the silver mech nodded and motioned for them to leave, taking the lead and guiding them back. Ratchet didn’t dwell too much on the phenomenon, only on the upcoming tasks he had to do.

. . .

“Greetings. Perceptor, is it? I’m Officer Pax, might I have a word with you?” Orion was in Crystal City, a beautiful place to sightsee or just lounge, but he abandoned such ideals in favor of meeting a few familiar faces—not to himself, but to a femme’s once profile.

The mech in question was red in hue. He had at most three datapads in his grasp along with some rolls of blueprints for whatever project he was working on. There was a curious look in his optics, not at Orion himself but at the badge on his shoulder.

“Officer?” He leaned in. “Has something happened?”

“What?” It took Orion only a moment to process the question before he was shaking his helm. “No, no. I apologize if it came off like that. I was just coming by to see if I might inquire some information; in regards to your relationship with Greenlight.”

Despite Orion’s casual tone, at the mention of the femme’s name, Perceptor paused. His once curious optics now shifting a shade darker with wariness. “Why have you come here, really, officer?”

Orion felt the mech raise his field and understood now how he was going to have to approach this topic. “I’m looking into Greenlight’s death.”

“Are you now?” Perceptor didn’t look at all to believe Orion, despite him being honest. “How come? She’s been laid to rest and the perpetrator banished. I don’t see the reason to dig up graves.”

“The reason is my own,” Orion stated. “I’m not forcing you to tell me anything, and you’re free to go if you want to. I just wanted to understand her friends so that I can understand why she was . . .” Orion paused. He didn’t want to sound insensitive, but at the same time he wanted to remain firm. He couldn’t carry on his investigations if he let others toss him around like a husk in the wind.

“Friends.” Orion caught the pitching scoff in the red mech’s voice. And as he looked at him, he could see the trouble in his features. “I wouldn’t call myself a friend of Greenlight’s.”

“But you were in the top one percent alongside her in her class. You were even credited as a co-creator of the axormind crux that she presented to the Assembly.”

“Ah, correction, I wouldn’t call myself a friend of Greenlight’s _after_ the presentation of the crux,” Perceptor corrected himself. An odd reply, but one Orion was beginning to piece together. “Before? Oh, well, you could say we were close. As close as any scientific comrade was, I suppose.”

Orion leaned in, glad to have the mech’s attention, more so glad he was willing to talk. “You said something about after the presentation. Did you and Greenlight have a falling out?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “Myself and our other coworker, Lancer, were just left.”

“Left?” Orion questioned. “Greenlight—?”

“That’s right,” Perceptor shook his head. “She left us.” He sounded a sigh. He looked genuinely troubled by the memory, but he carried on. “Sometimes the Assembly is graced by a high ranking noble, or tycoon. Some very lucky days they’re graced by a senator. That day it was Senator Proteus who happened to be present.”

Orion paused at the mention. Suddenly, his focus intensified to unnecessary levels.

“Senator Proteus?” Orion questioned and it was the mech’s nod that verified it all.

“He showed the most interest in the contraption. He even went as far as to personally speak to the three of us about its construction. And, since it was Greenlight’s original idea the two took their conversation further. There was talk about purchasing our creation, and using it in security fields, but nothing much came from those talks. The only outcome of it all was Greenlight’s departure.”

“Was she fired?” Orion asked.

“Fired? No. I’d say you would call it ‘promoted’, if giving up your caste-given occupation to be a Senator’s concubine is a promotion.” The mech looked sour and more than disgusted at the idea. “I wanted to support Greenlight’s relationship, but I found any positive reason for the link falling short. I think it’s because of my lack of understanding of her endeavors that drove a wedge between us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Orion could see that Greenlight still meant a lot to the mech. No doubt her offline took a toll that was only buried over by the cycles of hurt.

“Don’t be, it wasn’t my decision,” he said, giving Orion a look. “But I can’t vouch for Lancer’s character in the matter. You see she was quite against the idea from the moment Greenlight informed us. They got into so many fights that I was surprised Greenlight even stayed for as long as she did. But when she left, when Greenlight finally moved to Iacon to be with Senator Proteus, Lancer took it the hardest.”

“Lancer.” Orion logged the name and began looking through what files he could about her. “Could I ask for her address? It has been a pleasure hearing your point of view, but it really would further my investigation if I was able to secure more viewpoints.”

“I’m sure it would, but I unfortunately cannot disclose that information.”

Orion furrowed his brow. “For what reason, if I may ask?”

“Lancer’s been offline for ano-cycles.”

Offline? Greenlight’s disagreeing friend was offline? It was then Orion pulled up the file. The cause stated one of her experiments had exploded in her home and she was thrown from her balcony because of it. She faded away at the hospital.

“I . . . I’m so sorry.” Orion could feel his core warming. The further he looked at the file and every comment written the more he began to realize how very similar it sounded.

“I appreciate your condolences,” Perceptor offered a small smile, a grateful one laced with the pain of losing both his dear friends.

A pitch came at that moment, alerting Orion to an incoming call. Politely excusing himself Orion opened the frequency to Jazz’s excited tone.

“What is it, Jazz?”

‘ _Orion! You will not believe where I am_.’

Sounding a sigh, Orion held in the pending groan. “Jazz, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time for your game of fifty guesses.”

‘ _No need, was gonna tell you anyway. I’m in Kaon_.’

Orion perked. “Kaon? Why?”

‘ _Why else? I’ve heard from a not-so-reliable source, who heard from a reliable source whose source happens to be his own carrier, that a certain ‘bot lives in the sub levels that’s been repairing other ‘bots for free. Now, does that sound like anyone you know?_ ’

Orion’s optics widened. “Do you really think it could be Ratchet?”

‘ _’Bout to find out. Just got a tip on where the ‘bot lives. So, digits crossed_.’

“Keep me updated,” Orion pressed.

‘ _I always do. Jazz, out!_ ’

Orion could feel a cool of relief seeping through him. There was excitement too. Jazz was possibly on the verge of finally locating their friend who might still be online. He had to tell Thunderclash and Pharma.

“Young mech.” Orion turned back to his interviewee. The scientist’s field was less stressed, lower. His wariness replaced with intense curiosity. “Why exactly are you reopening Greenlight’s case?”

Orion let honesty guide him. “Because I have reason to believe she was murdered by Senator Proteus.”

. . .

After common rationality settled into Jazz’s mainframe he stopped assuming he’d locate his medic friend in the level cities. It wasn’t too long ago that he’d begun looking into the sub levels for further clues. The information that currents down there was a wealth of success.

Sure there were times Jazz struck dead ends, but more often than not he found new and open paths with further hints and trails not yet cold. However, there was another lesson he had to come to terms with, and that was the fact that not all Cybertronians carried a fondness for their fellow brother. More than once Jazz had to escape a mugging, and on the occasions he was unable to he found himself robbed of the tools necessary for his search.

Grown savvy now, Jazz traveled below with scuffs, scratches, and chips, all of which he gave to himself. His tools he kept hidden and his business mostly to himself. Many in the sub level didn’t bother as long as you, yourself, didn’t bother. After honing his sub level look, Jazz was pretty confident in his approach that time, more so in the lead he was given.

When he came to the address Jazz prepared himself for failure. It wouldn’t be the first time experiencing it. But, at the same time he tried to prepare himself for success. What if Ratchet really was behind the door? What would he look like? What would he say to Jazz?

Only one way finding out.

Jazz’s knocks were distinct and confident. However, when no one answered Jazz rapped against the doorframe again.

“What?” When the door slid open a very disinterested face met Jazz’s. It was in fact Jazz who reacted first.

Arms thrown up, form wrapped securely around the other frame, Jazz’s sudden jump had the red and white ‘bot stumbling back and then toppling over.

“Fragging . . . Primus, it’s really you, Ratchet!” Jazz was exuberant, ecstatic, as he clung to the other.

“J-Jazz?!” Now it was Ratchet whose familiar blue optics flickered, what once was pushing and fighting hands now halted their struggle after realizing who his assaulter was.

Jazz opened his mouth to say words he’d been waiting to, but none came when he felt his body shift. Suddenly he was in the air, and then next he was meeting the floor, quite hard. After that Jazz found himself paralyzed by a pressing weight over him.

“Who are you?!” That voice was not coming up as recognizable in Jazz’s memory banks. And he certainly would give himself a chance to explain if he could even form a proper sentence. But his chassis groaned in protest, the stress from the pressure disrupted his internal systems.

“Megatron, wait! Stop!” That was Ratchet. Jazz could hear him approach and it was only after that that the smaller ‘bot felt a relief from his crushed frame. “Primus, I’m so sorry.” Ratchet was now helping Jazz upright. Those skilled hands of his quickly moved over bent and smashed plating. “Are you alright?”

Shaking his helm, Jazz tried to collect his bearings. Looking to his right he noticed a rather large mech, standing so close to Ratchet as if he were some henchman.

“Your friend?” Jazz asked, pointing toward the towering ‘bot. He groaned, feeling the strain on his vocals. He’d been slammed pretty hard for that.

Ratchet nodded. “Megatron,” he introduced while simultaneously digging digits into vertebrae cords to examine Jazz’s vocal module. “And this is Jazz,” he also said, a comment to the hulk behind him. It only took a few moments before Ratchet was moving a pace back. The worry in his features fading as that Ratchet smile pulled at his lip plates. “How did . . . how did you find me?”

“You certainly didn’t make it easy,” Jazz said, moving the joints Ratchet had tweaked and then testing the volume angles of his vocals. Everything seemed just fine now. Standing, he looked at Ratchet. “I followed your trail through so many cities. I don’t think I once found any sort of settlement.”

Ratchet glanced down, Jazz’s words no doubt brought him back to the times he was on the run. “I had no choice,” he said, his digits idly rubbing together in a nervous manner.

“Hey, it’s cool, I understand,” Jazz clarified. “It’s just . . . I’m really happy to see you again, Ratch.” He reached out and took the doctor’s hands. “We’ve all been so worried; Thunderclash, Pharma, and even Orion. Primus, Orion’s been conducting his own investigation to find justice for you.”

That was when Ratchet pulled his hands away. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“What?” Jazz took a glance toward Ratchet’s friend who lingered on with just as much interest in his gaze. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt,” Ratchet replied. “If you are truly my friends then you’ll stop and just . . . move on.”

“Move on?” Jazz leaned closer. He could detect a slight hostile field coming from the silver mech. But he forced himself to ignore it. After all, he’d been Ratchet’s friend first. “What are you talking about? What they did to you, the things they said. You want us all to just accept that?”

Ratchet looked troubled and the further he sank into that expression Jazz noticed the shift in the silver mech’s stance. While Jazz knew Ratchet would protest should the ‘bot move to toss him out of the apartment, he certainly didn’t want to be body slammed by him—again.

“You know what I damn well mean.” Ratchet looked at Jazz, worry in all of his features. Jazz understood then. He understood what Ratchet was so afraid of.

So Jazz dropped the subject.

Looking toward Megatron, Jazz crossed his arms. Puffing his chassis did nothing to lessen their size comparison. “So, how did you meet Ratch?”

“Ratch?” The mech pulled out a smile and looked toward Ratchet. But Ratchet didn’t seem to enjoy the mirrored nickname.

“He’s Jazz; never one for calling someone by their proper designation,” Ratchet said. There was an interesting warning in the medic’s tone. A pitch Jazz recognized the medic usually only used for his close circle of friends. Hint taken.

“We actually just ran into each other,” Megatron said, finally answering Jazz’s question. “He’d gotten on the wrong side of a sub crowd and I bailed him out.”

“That’s real kind of you.” Jazz’s field began to lower defenses after hearing that. Anyone willing to protect his friend would be a friend of his. “And Ratch’s been here since?”

Megatron nodded. “He’s been of great help in these parts. To me and many others.”

“Which is actually how I found you,” Jazz mentioned, snapping his digits toward Ratchet. “There was talk of a ‘bot who went around repairing empties, and, well, I couldn’t see no other self-respecting, top-grade student other than yourself doing it. So I followed the crumbs.”

Ratchet huffed. “Your honesty always amazes me, Jazz, as do your tracking skills.”

“As am I,” Megatron stated. “Might I get the names of the contacts that gave you this address?”

Jazz could see the threat in Megatron’s optics, not necessarily at him but at the poor individuals who just so happened to know where this compassionate doctor lived.

“Sorry, that’s confidential.” With a snap, Jazz sealed his lip plates. “What is it you do for a living?”

The frame said manual, but that previous restraint exclaimed enforcer. With the way Megatron smiled, Jazz expected he’d be finding out very soon.

“You’re just in time to find out.” Megatron nodded to the both of them and it was from there they headed up level until the gates to Kaon’s new gladiatorial stadium were opened for them.

“Gladiator.” Jazz nodded. “Huh, should have guessed.” He looked to Ratchet then. “Does that mean you . . .?”

Ratchet shifted the tool case in his hands. “I fix him when he gets banged up.”

“If, not when,” Megatron retorted.

“Well, I’m not gonna lie to my friend,” came Ratchet’s remark. Seeing the two banter like that brought Jazz back to the times when he and the others would. A pleasant time, and one that he sees lives on in Ratchet’s new relationships.

It was from below deck that Jazz got to see Megatron’s arena battle. While getting body slammed by him previously took a toll on his much smaller frame, Jazz couldn’t imagine what it would feel like actually facing that mech in full-blown battle. Just watching him batter his opponents into the ground was something else.

“Are you . . . are you seeing this, Ratch?” Jazz couldn’t turn his visor away. The skill, the brutality, the sheer power of it all amazed and horrified him at the same time. He needed to stop watching and yet he wanted to watch more.

“I don’t watch,” Ratchet said while he worked on another ‘bot’s helm base gears.

“Oh, right . . . doctor thing.” Jazz turned away from the monitors and waltzed back to his friend. “So, really, how are you doing, Ratchet?”

Sounding a sigh, Ratchet only shifted to switch out tools. “As best I can, I suppose.”

“Not that I’d have believed you’d settle down here, it is good to see that you’ve got a roof, a means of income, and someone to protect you.”

That was when Ratchet sputtered, and it wouldn’t be the first time the medic had turned a welder on Jazz. “I don’t need anyone’s protection but my own.” Ratchet churned the temp higher for point and then turned away, smelting what plating he could on the patient in front of him.

“Touchy,” Jazz commented with a pitch of humor. “I can definitely see the change, but I can still see our Ratchet as clear as Luna 1. Don’t you change anymore, you hear? Or else the others won’t be able to recognize you when you come home.”

Ratchet extinguished the fire and turned to put his tool back into its rightful place. He looked at Jazz, the mech just smiling. His presence was comforting and so damned relieving that Ratchet was having a hard time expressing it. But, he was glad Jazz understood.

“Please, tell me you all will lead careful lives. Just fulfill your duties.” Jazz understood Ratchet’s words, storing them for later processing. But he couldn’t take them as the soft command that they were.

“A cog in the great machine,” Jazz repeated. “Ain’t no greater machine than friendship, Ratch, and you can be sure we’ll all fulfill our roles.”

He could see the distress on Ratchet’s face, but before he uttered a word Jazz received a call from his department. His superiors were calling him into work, leaving Jazz with no choice but to return to Iacon.

“Other duties call,” Jazz announced as Ratchet stood. “Don’t you be going anywhere now. I’d rather not track you all over Cybertron again.”

Ratchet smiled. “Traveling’s not in my forecast.”

When Jazz leaned over and wrapped his arms around his friend, Ratchet returned the embrace. He didn’t want to let go, he really didn’t. It felt just so damn nice to hold the medic again that all Jazz wanted to do was stay right there and know he was within arm’s reach. But they eventually had to pull away, and Jazz eventually had to leave.

Ratchet’s core was warm when Jazz left. It was the chamber cocooning his spark that began to shutter. Ratchet checked into his programing to make certain everything was operational and the run-throughs were met with positive feedback. However, the ache inside his chassis didn’t go away.

“Gone so soon?” Ratchet turned to find Megatron walking down the auditorium hall. His match done and won.

“Yeah, he . . .” Ratchet rubbed his face, shaking his helm, trying to ignore the ache and the hitches in his vocals. “He had to go. Work and all . . .” That was when he felt Megatron’s hand on his shoulder plate.

“It was good for you to see him, but I hadn’t wished he leave you like this.”

“Can’t be helped.” Ratchet finally shook himself out of his reoccurring misery and then shook Megatron off of him. “I’ve got ‘bots to fix. And you, you’ve got groupies to meet.”

There was a reluctance in Megatron’s departure that Ratchet ignored. There were a lot of things that the medibot ignored, like how he was picking up the wrong tool to fix an axel misplacement, or how he continued to issue system run-throughs to check for internal wear. It was all for the better, at least that’s what Ratchet told himself. And kept telling himself.

. . .

“Play it again.”

Jazz shook his helm. This will be the sixteenth time. “Alright.” His visor glew bright, images from first-person moving along only to reveal the experience of meeting an old friend that many of those sitting around him had been waiting to see.

“Look at him.” Orion was wide smiles as he examined Ratchet’s frame. “He looks well taken care of. Not at all malnourished.”

“From the looks of it, it seems he intakes regularly,” Pharma spoke up. “No sign of rust, or corrosion.”

“Oh, now here’s my favorite part.” Thunderclash’s smile was sharp when the images swirled and then slammed into the ground, an obvious indicator that Jazz had been owned.

“You would,” Jazz snapped back with a hiss in his frequency.

“In all seriousness, you said his name was Megatron?” Prowl looked curiously at the large mech. His mannerisms were very much threatening, and even the subtle motions Jazz may not have caught whilst there were something to take note of. “Kaon gladiator.” Prowl processed it for a moment. “I could look into their files, if you want. Just to make sure he checks out alright.”

“Ratchet seemed to trust him,” Jazz announced.

“There’s not much of a choice, I assume,” Thunderclash spoke up, his arms crossed with the same wariness Prowl mentioned. “Being in the sub levels. Kaon of all cities.”

“With any further luck, he won’t have to be there for long.” Everyone turned to Orion. “After a few more interviews I think it’s safe to say I’m onto something.”

“And so am I,” Thunderclash said. “I finally got to examine those pieces of evidence. Corrupted, all of them. I’ve never seen a stack so tampered with.”

“Well, since you three have struck golden energon, I might as well show the goods too.” Pharma pulled up a single file. The statement of which was short and to the point. A simple receipt. “This is Halfmark. He just so happens to work on staff for Senator Proteus. Ordered a case of depleters about a stellar cycle before Ratchet’s conviction. Coincidence? I really don’t think so.”

“Well done, everyone,” Orion praised. “But I don’t need to caution you further to tread carefully. I feel like there are optics everywhere, with target signs scrawled on our backs.”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one that feels that,” Thunderclash spoke up. “But, eh, I’m ready for them.”

“Just, please. Be careful,” Orion once more stressed. “At least until all our evidence can be properly verified.” He sounded a sigh in his wariness, but excitement. “We’re so close to getting Ratchet back. We can’t fail him now.”

“Take it easy, Pax.” Orion looked toward Prowl. “Just as Ratchet’s put his trust in you all, so do you need to put your trust in us. Besides, it’s not like we can pull out. We’re already in too deep.”

“Not deep enough.” Thunderclash shook his helm, making a face. “I’ve no doubt that when we finally reach the bottom we’ll find nothing but skeletal structures of frames we know.”

And he wasn’t the only one there who felt that way.

. . .

“Okay, I understand that it’s a surprise and all, but seriously, Megatron, did you have to blindfold me?” Ratchet’s arms were spread out, swishing as if he was about to run into some sort of obstacle. “Couldn’t you have just brought the surprise to me?”

“Heh, that’s what I’m doing.” Ratchet felt the gladiator guiding him by the shoulders, urging him forward and then steering him right or left if need be. From Ratchet’s understanding, they had driven a short distance, walked up flights of stairs, walked down two more, moved through a seemingly endless alley and take more than a few lefts and rights. Ratchet was beginning to think this was some sort of prank.

It was when his hands tapped against metal he let them spread out. It felt like a wall? No, a door? Maybe. He wasn’t so sure.

“Down here.” Megatron took hold of his wrist and guided his hand to a panel. That was when Ratchet heard the click of a door slide open. Yep it was a door after all. “Keep going.”

Ratchet caught his forepede on the entry and took a short stumble. Megatron was there to make sure he didn’t completely face-plant the ground, but the trip still annoyed him to the point he shook of his guide’s hands.

“Are you done? Really, are we done? I’m getting tired of stumbling through synthetic dark.” Ratchet turned to give a face to where he assumed Megatron was. He could sense his field just right beside him.

“Alright, take it off.”

Ratchet hadn’t followed a command so quickly. Chucking the blindfold was too much of a pleasure. But, even in his relief he found his lip plates dropping into a gap, his optics bright and wide.

“Do you like it?” There was Megatron, leaning against a table, an examination table. There were three of them to be exact and not far was a counter, barren of any item but above it lay cabinets, no doubt empty just as much.

There were outlets in every few paces, switches on the wall for leveling the tables, and there was more. Ratchet moved into the back room where a grouping of cabinets lay, for organizing the likes of data files. And there was a desk, a small one, but one no less. It was situated in the corner, the only object taking up its expanse was a designation plate with the wording of: Doctor Ratchet.

Turning back Ratchet quickly left the darker and smaller backroom. Megatron still remained, leaned against a table, a smile on his face plates.

“What did you . . . what is this place?” Ratchet looked around once more, just up ahead the room opened up into a decently larger area, almost something akin to a waiting room.

“You once told me I shouldn’t encourage the people to see the world of their dreams because they had no ability to make it a reality. Some do, and even if that some start something, at least they’re the ones beginning to build.” Megatron motioned to the space around. “Let this be the beginning.” When he looked at Ratchet he finally said, “It’s your clinic, doctor.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered. Internal processing was finding trouble editing the ratios of the probability of what was transpiring. “My . . .” And then observations began to click into place. “No. Megatron, you didn’t.”

Ratchet’s upset was rising, creating a weight that was almost suffocating. Megatron must have noticed this because he rose his hands and then laid them down until they were the only weight on Ratchet’s shoulders that he’d focus on.

“What better way to start the new world than with a clinic open to anyone?” Megatron smiled despite Ratchet’s reluctance to do so. “Besides, a home with a view isn’t going to help anyone but me.”

“But those funds were for _your_ dream,” Ratchet stressed.

“Ah, but yours was much more useful than mine.” Megatron waved it all off just to keep smiling. Ratchet still didn’t know what he should do, or how he should react to all of this. A surprise? It sure was, one that made his spark pulse and his core heat, but after understanding that Megatron took his saved funds to secure this place he wasn’t so sure how he felt about the clinic.

When Megatron moved away he gave the medibot space enough to process everything, examine his surroundings, and accept this gift. It took some time but eventually Ratchet moved, opening the cabinets, the drawers, looking at the examination tables, testing the lowering gages. And then he was at the desk, his scarlet servos brushing over the top and then picking up the designation plate.

It was then a short laugh echoed in the room.

“I used to have one just like this,” Ratchet said, reminiscing as his digits brushed over each lettering. “This all really . . .” He turned to look at Megatron who was standing in the entrance. “This is really a clinic, my clinic?”

“All yours,” Megatron said, moving a little closer. “Paid in full. You just have to promise me that you’ll take care of it and all the ‘bots that will take up the space inside.”

Ratchet’s following chuckle was short, hitched, and the expressions on his face were shadowed by the poor lighting in the room. He wouldn’t take his optics off that designation plate. “You don’t have to tell a medibot to do his job.” He finally smiled, and he finally looked at Megatron. “Thank-you, so, so much.”

Ratchet’s Clinic was just a short ways from Wreckage Row, a few flight climbs and two lefts and right and it’d be right above. It was open from morning to fourth quarter. You were welcome to stay overnight, but most visitors didn’t find need to do so often. The doctor that worked there was one of the most skilled in all of Kaon, if not the most, and they say he did it all for free.

Missing ligaments? Why, he’d craft one for you in a mega-cycle, or a cyber-week if you wanted a properly functioning one. Rusted gears? He can cut any infection away and sod in replacements. Scraplet infestation? This doctor can find even the smallest egg on your frame. Malfunctioning mainframe? This doc’s in business for neuro surgery as well.

The lingo of the sub levels began to sound like that, and Ratchet’s clinic became constantly congested with ailing patients, each in eager wait for their turn to see the doctor. And Ratchet did it all by himself. Help would be nice, but the medibot knew he wouldn’t likely find the staff he necessarily needed in parts like that.

There weren’t any complaints though, something that his damaged patients weren’t used to, just as they weren’t used to leaving a clinic without some form of a bill. In Ratchet’s work he met more over-grateful and sorrow-ridden mechs and femmes than he could count. And he continued to meet them after each repair and life saved.

It felt fulfilling fixing them all, even if there was an endless amount of them.

Despite Ratchet’s fulltime position, he did make sure to close down the clinic right before Megatron’s games were finished. After all that gladiator had done for him, Ratchet made sure the least he could do was be there to mend his injuries should he receive them. The other gladiators made sure to voice their complaints over Ratchet’s resignation, but many of those said ‘bots only ended up being visitors to the medic’s clinic once they found out.

There was one day where Ratchet was getting ready to close. Down to his last patient, the ‘bot required a datachip replacement, his own having corroded ages ago. Ratchet had the mech in a relaxed stasis and was in the process of crafting him a replacement when he heard the entrance chime with a visitor.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m getting ready to close shop.” Ratchet didn’t at all look away from his work. He was almost done and he couldn’t be bothered by the newcomer.

“My, was it ever so hard to find you.”

Ratchet didn’t recognize the voice, but the mech did end up making him turn away from his work, sitting up to look at the ‘bot. He was a dark green, and there was this impressed smile on his face. Other than that he didn’t look at all in need of repair.

“I’ll say it again: I’m closing soon. Come back tomorrow.” Even though Ratchet held firm in his command, there was just something about the ‘bot before him that felt . . . off.

“This is a really nice place you got here.” Ratchet didn’t like the way the mech simply meandered through the room, messing with switches, looking at the tools laying on the counter. Anything to sizzle the medibot’s circuitry.

And then the ‘bot moved to the patient Ratchet had lain on the examination table. “Is he offline?”

“What? No, he’s stasis.”

Ratchet’s optics widened when he watched the mysterious mech reach down into the ‘bot’s chassis between seams and pull at a power cord. The sudden click had Ratchet jumping to his feet, rushing toward his patient to attempt reattachment, or else he risked offlining. He didn’t get the chance to do any of that when he was pushed, practically slammed into the wall.

Cornered and understanding the danger of the situation, of this mech before him, Ratchet complied to his whims, for as much as he needed to. It was from his position against the wall that he watched the mech move away, only a fraction.

“Now that I have your undivided attention.” The mech then took out a transmitter from his subspace and laid it on the counter. In a flash the holoform of someone very familiar grafted together, and they looked right at Ratchet.

‘ _Well, look at you. You look better than I expected you to_.’ Ratchet felt his frame freeze as the image of Senator Proteus stared at him. He even held that smug smile of his through the projections. ‘ _What’s wrong, doctor? I thought after all this time you’d at least have a few words for me_.’

Ratchet remained silent.

‘ _How are the sub levels anyway? I’ve always been curious what’s down there, but never really had the bearings to visit, you know_.’ And then Proteus sounded a few laughs, as if their conversation was simply cordial. ‘ _Oh, but I digress. You won’t believe how many hired hands failed to locate you, until this guy_ ,’ he thumbs toward the intimating mech continuing to observe Ratchet, keeping him at bay with his stare alone. ‘ _Managed to come up lucky and find you amongst all the desolate and disposables down there. I’m honestly amazed you haven’t become one yourself, though, I think I know you a little better than that, eh, Ratchet. You’re a fighter. I’d bet you’d survive a rust plague. But, still, it makes me wonder what you did to secure all of . . ._ ’ he motioned to the space surrounding them. ‘ _This_.’ And then Proteus’ holographic gaze was back on Ratchet. ‘ _Moseyed up comfortably to some street lords?_ ’ His snicker heated Ratchet’s core. ‘ _They’re the only ones with any amount of anything down there. But, I do hope you haven’t used all your resources on them. I think it would only be fair if I got the chance to be repaid for my kindness_.’

Kindness? What kindness? Stripping away all of his titles, destroying his home, shaming his teachers and friends? Ensuring Ratchet would be mobbed should the public see his face? What _kindness_ is Proteus speaking of?

‘ _Don’t you forget who saved your pretty face and precious hands from empurata, who spoke out even against rewiring. You think I did that out of pity? Far from it, my friend. All I ask in return is a little gratitude. It’s not too much, right?_ ’

That was it, Ratchet couldn’t bear to look at the mech anymore. So he turned his face, wanting nothing more than to further shut off his optical and audial sensors.

‘ _I see_ ,’ Ratchet heard the disappointment in his voice, but he didn’t care to see it. ‘ _It seems you need to spend a little more time in the slums_.’

The message ended with that. And from there Ratchet turned to look at the mech. He simply picked up the transmitter and returned it to his subspace. After that he turned to leave, of course departing with words of advice for the medic.

“A curious predicament you’re in, medic, but,” the mech stopped just before the door, turning to give Ratchet another once-over. “Not a position I’d want to find myself. If I were you, I wouldn’t keep the Senator waiting, because no matter how low you’ve fallen, you can always be pushed lower.”

As soon as he left Ratchet rushed to his patient. He was more than lucky to get him back online without any lasting internal damage. He sent him home after the transplant ensuring he’d be much safer out there than in the clinic. And then Ratchet sat there, his helm in his hands and elbow rotators nestled on an examination table.

He sat there reflecting on what had just transpired, what the things Proteus said to him meant, and then the threatening message the senator’s hired hand had given. All of it troubled Ratchet and wracked his core. He felt cold, alone, and the fear that he had once felt, in truth not too long ago, was seeping its way back into his circuitry. He thought of Jazz, of holding him, and then of the rest of his friends. They were in such close living compartments from that damned Senator that it frightened Ratchet to death.

He thought that he’d seen the last of him, that the bastard did this all to him to make sure he met his end in the most humiliating and gruesome of ways, but now he was back, back only to torment Ratchet to the point he couldn’t function.

Ratchet jumped when he heard the chime at the front door announce a second occupant. He thought he had locked the door. No one could have gotten in . . .

“Ratchet?” The medibot sunk down with relief at the sound of Megatron’s voice. It wasn’t long after the call that the silver mech came into the examination room to find him seated, hunched over a table. “Ratchet, are you alright? You weren’t at the arena so I wondered what kept you.”

Sitting upright, realization returned. “Oh, is your match over already?” He checked the time and noticed how long he’d been sitting there. Well.

With a wave of his hand, Ratchet motioned for Megatron to take a seat on the table. Megatron, however looked more focused on trying to discern Ratchet’s hallow expressions.

“There’s no need, Painkiller patched me up,” Megatron explained.

“And we both know he does a slag of a job, now get over here.” Ratchet continued to motion Megatron over until the gladiator conceded. From there the mech observed his medic friend dig into his tools.

“It’s not like you to lose track of time.”

Ratchet nodded, understanding. He pulled out a minor hammer and began pounding out dents. Painkiller never bothered with the dents. “I know, I just . . . I was busy is all. Slipped my mainframe.”

“The clinic was closed.” Megatron takes a glance around. “There’s no one here.”

Ratchet could hear the concern laced in Megatron’s words. He knew that, as a friend, he was more than worried. But even then Ratchet just wished Megatron wouldn’t say a word, that he’d let him work in peace, in silence, in . . .

Megatron notices when Ratchet’s arms fall down to his sides, dangling. He looks at Ratchet, but Ratchet doesn’t meet his gaze. “I-I know, I’m sorry. I just . . .” The hammer fell out of Ratchet’s grasp with a sound that reverberated off the walls. Ratchet hadn’t realized his frame was shaking, but Megatron had. “There was . . . there was a visitor.”

Now it’s the sound of Megatron jumping to his pedes that echoes off the walls. He’s standing in front of Ratchet, that red gleam scanning him for signs of abuse and wound. Ratchet thinks he could feel those large hands wrapping around his arms, but he’s not quite sure in that moment because his shaking is worse and he’s hunching, choking on his relived fright.

“Where are they?” The heat in Megatron’s vocals is similar to an animalistic growl. “Tell me where they went and I will go after them. Just tell me.”

Shaking his helm, Ratchet moves his hands over his trembling lips. “Gone. They’re gone.” Biting down the fright was harder than Ratchet realized, especially when Megatron was there, standing so close, being the only one holding him up. “I thought . . . I thought I could escape. That I could hide away here, with you, but he found me. That fragger found me and now I can’t stay, I can’t . . .”

“Easy.” Megatron continued to steady Ratchet, keeping him from becoming a victim of his unbalanced knee rotators. “There’s no need to go anywhere. You’re safe here with me.”

Ratchet took a few more moments to collect himself before he finally looked up at Megatron, his optics a shaded mess as sorrow melded his features into a hideous display. “He’s the reason I killed them. I wouldn’t go to his berth and so he told the city I killed them. He told everyone that I killed her and her litter, that I did it because I . . .” Ratchet’s helm felt heavy, so he sank back down, shaking it. “Senator Proteus, I used to be his family’s doctor. He wanted . . . me, and what I could give him.” Ratchet felt his hand move over his tank subconsciously, as if remembering what he still harbored. “But what did I want? Not that. I just wanted to do my job, be the doctor. It wasn’t good enough for him and so he killed her and the little ones and blamed it on me. My teacher . . . oh, the look in his optics when he scraped away my medical badge, it hurt so much. But, leaving behind the ones I cared for most, I thought I was going to just die. And I ran, I ran for so long until I came here. I thought it was safe—enough, that I could fulfill the role I was intended to without having to turn around and look at the things I went through . . . but he came, he sent others out just to find me, just to torment me.”

It was weak, but Megatron’s grasp gave way with Ratchet’s shake off. He turned, his vision a static jumble and his grasp frail and drained. Ratchet was attempting to pack away his tools, but his vigor and pace lagged.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you, any of you, into this mess.” Ratchet paused, a hand moving back to hide trembling lip plates. “He almost . . . he almost killed my patient, I . . .” Shaking off the shock, Ratchet moved forward again, rolling up his instruments into a sleeve. “I have to leave. I can’t let him find me agai—”

Strong arms wound around him, pulling him away from the counter. The sound of his instruments clattering to the floor didn’t at all process in Ratchet’s audials as he was turned and thrust against a large and warm chassis. The embrace was tight, constricting even. Comforting as it was assuring.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ratchet heard the words rumble out of the chest, vibrating against his frame, shaking him to the point his core began to tempt, to warm. “It’s normal to feel afraid. You’re not quite machine if you don’t.” There was a hand, rubbing Ratchet’s back, the motion made him shake at first but then it coaxed him into a state of numbness. And then he sobbed.

Ratchet cried while Megatron held him, making sure the medic had a place he felt safe enough to do so, even if the only place was in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo, well that chapter ended up being longer than expected. Stay tuned, guys! Next chapter Megs and Ratch will be getting a little more intimate ;3


	6. Don't Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys seriously rocked with all those reviews/comments! Please, keep them coming, they really get me going to write the chapters faster! :D  
> Enjoy another long chap!

“You got a virus?”

“No.”

“Suffer from rust or corrosion?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Got faulty joints or malfunctioning circuitry?”

“Last I checked, no.”

Ratchet sounded a sigh. There was a look of warning in his optics. “Then how many times do I have to tell you to leave? This place is for the injured and ailing. You’re neither of those.”

“Don’t be like that, Ratchet.” Barricade wasn’t the first gladiator that’s frequented the clinic looking quite complacent and well-functioning. “You know why I’m here.”

Ratchet nodded, maneuvering around standing, leaning, and laying patients. He was at the counter, pulling out a mixture of vials and began extracting measured amounts from each. “Of course I do, which is why I want you to leave. You’ve got your own life to take care of. It’s a waste of time; you being here.” Pouring the mixture into a small canister, the doctor then maneuvered back and handed the container to a ‘bot. “Take this right away, the backup should dissolve in about three cycles, if it doesn’t come back and see me.” Ratchet then turned his optics toward the dark mech again. “Why are you still here?”

“Because Megatron asked me to,” Barricade answered.

“Fine, and now I’m asking you to leave.” Ratchet knelt down, looking at the sparking cables of a patient’s pelvic junction. Sinking his fingers into the wiring, his optics watched the ‘bot for reactions. “Can you feel anything in this vicinity, sir?”

The ‘bot looked uncomfortable, but worried most of all. “Hardly, doctor. And they’ve been like this for over a deca-cycle.”

Ratchet hummed in thought, nodding. “Yeah? Well, I wish you would have come here sooner.”

As soon as Ratchet reached into his subspace inventory and pulled out needle tweezers, Barricade spoke up again. “I’m doing this because I want to too, Ratchet.” The medibot set to his work, offering no signs that he was still listening, but that didn’t stop Barricade from continuing. “I care about you, doc, a lot of the mechs do back in the pits. It’s really no trouble at all for us to come by and make sure everything’s alright.”

“Well it’s trouble for me.” Ratchet finally pulled out some dead wiring from his patient’s joint. “I can’t have my problems become your problems because, suddenly, that’s another problem for me.” Ratchet huffed, tugging out a roll of new cables and began cutting off the proper amounts needed.

“Come now, Ratchet, that isn’t fair.” Barricade proceeded to motion toward the scores of ‘bots jammed into the clinic, patients waiting patiently to be seen and repaired. “There’s no need for you to do all of this, yet you do. Why? Because you want to help them. The same goes for me, and the others. Just as you get to freely do what you want with your skills, so can I. Like it or not, you’re going to be seeing this ugly mug around often.”

Barricade made no tall tales about that statement. As often as Ratchet saw him patrolling the perimeter of the clinic, and the occasional poke-in’s, he also saw the likes of Lugnut, Blackout, and on a few occurrences he’s spotted Overlord within the vicinity. Their presence certainly stirred an uneasiness in many of his patients, but it did keep the more ruffian percentage out of his doors.

It’s not that he didn’t mind their help, it was just becoming overbearing for Ratchet. He liked to close the clinic around the fourth quarter so he could be there after Megatron’s matches for possible pending repairs, but his drive there was often met with an awaiting escort. He couldn’t even take a break from the amped security while he went to the market to stock inventory. It didn’t take long before their insistence pushed Ratchet to order delivery from the clinic.

Ratchet understood, he really did. Despite these risen defenses he felt suffocated. It was frustrating.

Even after closing, now sitting in that vaguely lit office, running through the inventory checklist, Ratchet felt the overwhelming suffocation of phantom crowds. If it wasn’t from the unwelcomed fields then it was from his own harassing thoughts, all of which made the medic lay down his datapad and rub his digits over his optics. Audio static tumbled out of his vocal processors, ending in an annoyed hum.

A single ‘bot walked into the room, and once more Ratchet felt crowded.

“How fair the numbers, doctor?” The larger mech tapped Ratchet against his shoulder strut as he passed him, moving further toward the cabinets and sliding a few files in his own possession away.

Ratchet looked at the silver mech, silence abounding but a rampant rush of words passing through the gleam in his optics. It was when Megatron turned back around, red meeting blue, that Ratchet actually replied.

“Up sixty-one percent since last quartex. I underestimated my orders for silicone reinforcement and carbo-nyphites, and I had to sacrifice the funds for capped titanium for copper plates instead. I just can’t keep up with the demand for it all.” Ratchet’s sigh hit every pitch and hitch of the frustration that was festering inside him. “I’m thinking about closing earlier so that I can return working at the arena.” It would be a slag of a duty; going from repairing ‘bots to repairing ‘bots. And it would be more than exhausting, but at least it would be able to give the medic a little extra income to secure the materials he needed for the demanding patients.

“No.” Of course Megatron would disapprove. “I’ve already expressed my thoughts about you returning there. You’re much more needed here.”

Ratchet leaned forward, his elbow gears rubbing against his desk as his optics glared at the mech before him. “We’re bleeding funds right now, Megatron. Even if it were only for a couple cycles I’d be able to bring in some much-needed shanix. The front kiosk needs a complete system overhaul and screen replacement, and then there’s the prospect of finding an assistant. I’m struggling here.”

“Just a little longer,” Megatron bade. “You’re a resourceful mech, you’ve made do before.”

“But for how long, damn it?!” Ratchet’s clenched fist slammed against his desk surface. The sound of metal panging against metal echoed even out into the examination room. “How long am I going to have to endure ‘making due’ or even endure with that poor excuse of an escort.”

Megatron snorted. “I’d hardly call them a ‘poor excuse’. They’re doing a finer job than even the Elite Guard.”

“Do I look like Sentinel Prime?” Ratchet could feel his core temperature rising. He was tired lately, disappointed, and more than overwhelmed with his responsibilities and those that constantly kept their optics on him. Now was as good as any time to vent, especially when there were audials to hear and optics to see. “I have one nasty run-in and you suddenly pull gladiator rank and have all your loyals come around to nose in my business. Escorting me wherever I drive, picking up my delivery, vetting my patients. It’s a little excessive, Megatron, and my CPU is ready to glitch out with all of this added unnecessariness.”

The taps of Megatron’s hands sliding down onto his desk pulled Ratchet from examining his hiccupping processor speeds to the silver mech standing just a short reach away. Even in Ratchet’s ramble, and more than rude outburst, Megatron looked down at him with a soft light in his optical paneling. The expressions on his face were gentle and understanding, something Ratchet didn’t want to see right then.

“You always think so little of yourself.” Ratchet could hear the soft hums of Megatron’s vents, calm and collected, while his own whirled on in fruitless attempts to cool his stressing systems. “Your value is worth far more than any Prime’s down here. If you don’t wish to take my word for it then take it from the ‘bot who laid in the gutters for ano-cycles until you crafted him functioning ligaments, or the corner store owner whose conjunx would have offlined hadn’t you correctly diagnosed his illness that other medibots only covered up for the doctoral fees.” Megatron was getting good at speaking as of late. His tone was bold, and his pitch motivational, all of which made Ratchet feel warmth spread across his frame for other reasons than frustration. Which only made him frustrated to the fact. “And . . .” Ratchet didn’t even pretend to ignore the way Megatron’s hand laid over his own. “Let’s not forget that one mech; impossible in his ways and words, and too blind to see the dangers he was hurdling into. Despite the draw bridge being up he continued to drive down that road because he didn’t want to look for any other way around. Hadn’t you come and knocked some adequate sense into him, and given the most sound detour, I don’t think he would have functioned for more than a few stellar-cycles.”

Ratchet chortled then. A twitch of a smile shadowed his lip plates for a few moments. He nodded. “You’re probably right there.” It was a shame Megatron moved his hand away, despite what they were known for, they were always warm and a comfort for the medibot’s anxious digits.

“It is only proper to struggle, especially down here,” Megatron said. “There will be more days like this, but _I_ despise struggling to make you see how valuable you are here, to us, to me.” Only a short silence passed for the overworked processor. “I’ve got more matches in upper Kaon lined up. The winnings will bring in enough credit to pay for the rest of your inventory.”

It was how Megatron was, and it only served to frustrate Ratchet because the gladiator, himself, wasn’t frustrated. There he was, the only source of income for two mechs whom both needed daily fuel and upkeep, an apartment that demanded rent and energy bills, and on top of all of that there was a clinic whose lights needed to remain on, stocks full, and medical equipment up to date all in the name of offering free services to the desolate. Dreams were pricey, and Ratchet was more than willing to understand this and do his part to keep hold of said dream, but Megatron continued to work himself to the metallic structure, as if it was his sole duty to provide for the both of them. And that was why Ratchet was so oft upset.

In his gratitude Ratchet tried to keep his comments to himself. These talks, or disagreements, only stressed the both of them to the point of exhaustion and Ratchet certainly didn’t want to be the cause of any ailing in Megatron’s future matches. And so he did the part Megatron wanted him to. For now.

The matches in upper Kaon really were a welcomed opportunity. Whether in loss or winnings, the gladiator opponents were paid generously. Not that Megatron would give up his winning streak, because the winnings were much nicer.

His popularity in the ring began reaching peaks Ratchet honestly hadn’t believed he would be able to witness. Not that he doubted Megatron’s ability to meet his career obligations to their fullest, Megatron was quite efficient in that expectant field. But soon enough the matches began to sell out quicker, the broadcasters doubled to meet viewer demand, media ‘bots would flock both before and after matches, and the fans . . . oh, those had to be the worst of all.

Even before the lavish experiences in upper Kaon, Megatron had his share of admirers. However, with the broadened exposure from the current grander scaled fights, the silver mech was finding his fan base multiplying at an alarming rate. Popularity in the sub levels were manageable, but any higher and it was becoming more than a challenge to be met.

Megatron was a fair mech and an earnestly considerate celebrity. He took his time answering every question to his best ability, ensured that he engraved his signature on any merchandise the eager ‘bots shoved before him, and never lost his composure in the morphing crowds. Where stress and anxiety were nonexistent on the outstanding and overachieving gladiator it shifted onto his lesser known friend, and personal medic, Ratchet.

Ratchet could understand the stalking, and Megatron took the avid obsession in stride. But when the attention began to trickle away from the gladiator to those he surrounded himself with; that was when Ratchet began to struggle with his friend’s fame.

It didn’t take long for Megatron’s plights and skill to earn him the title of most-renowned face in all of Kaon, their official gladiatorial champion. Inasmuch it didn’t take long before the public began delving into his life behind the arena, and so bleeding their attentions onto his friends. It was becoming a struggle for Ratchet to keep himself hidden from the snapshots and the recordings the sub levels were gaining. While the interest brought more visitors and business to the lights of the lower leveled arenas and businesses, that didn’t mean it was as welcomed as assumed, especially for the likes of Ratchet.

Despite Megatron’s constant disapproval of its wear, Ratchet found himself becoming best friends with his cloak. There were hidden cameras everywhere now and he certainly wasn’t at all keen on his face falling in the roster of Megatron’s closers in Kaon’s celebrity upkeep zines. And living under the constant stress and worry that one day he’ll slip up and give way to an opening only made the medibot spend longer cycles at the clinic, and many more days simply recharging there, away from the eager snappers who were frequent visitors at the apartment.

Honestly, that was the lesser problem Ratchet was finding himself at odds with. The higher issue of which being that this following even stalked Megatron to the discussions he would attend with other fellow ‘bots, all speaking about caste-breaking and system-resisting. The upper levels of Kaon found these anti-functionist gatherings expanding unpredictably. It was this influencing popularity that scratched Ratchet the wrong way

Ratchet was sure to express his dislike over this, but even as he had Megatron’s rebuttal ended in positivity, expressing to the medic that he was glad the movement reached more audials even if it was to a bunch of avid fans. Ratchet still held his reservations, but there wasn’t much of anything that he could do to prevent the growth. All he could do was to hope his own influence over the gladiator would rub off in the right ways to where if obsession rolled too far then Megatron would be able to nip it before it became untamable.

From the stresses at his clinic, to his frustrations with unwanted security, to his worries over Megatron’s rising following, Ratchet felt it was time to show he was capable of his own self-efficiency. And so he went off to purchase a gun.

Outside of Law Enforcement, or the Elite Guard and its militant factions, guns were illegal. But that didn’t stop the weapons from floating under tables. The lower levels were a dangerous place where unlawful acts were done and often gotten away with, and so criminal and law-abiding citizen alike sought security in the weight of a blaster.

Ratchet didn’t enjoy entering the shop. The customers inside stared too much and the owner looked more than dubious for his obvious dealings.

“What can I get you for, whitey?” The mech behind the counter was as shady as his paint. And that smile on his lip plates made it obvious he was singling him out. Ratchet could only hope to pull his cloak tighter around himself, and keep away from more than curious optics or camera lenses.

“I . . .” Ratchet huffed. What was he so worried over? It wasn’t like he had a reputation to uphold anymore. “I’m here to purchase a gun.”

“A gun, good sir? Why, you must be new to these parts. There happens to be a strict law that prohibits any purchase or sell of firearms. Unfortunate for business, but I do have other merchandise you might find accommodating.” The mech was beige and dark hues. His optics were plated over with violet panels, a look in them both sly and uncouth. He motioned Ratchet to his stocks of pawned materials, the façade of a mech looking to make a sale.

“Cut the prim dialogue, you’re full of slag.” Ratchet stood his ground even as the browsing ‘bots inside paused, turned now and looked at him with silent threats. The owner only leaned against the front counter, his smile never falling even as his dark digits drummed against the glass paneling beneath. Ratchet believed he heard his designation was Swindle, or something like that. “I came here to purchase a firearm, and will not be leaving until I get one.”

The pending silence in the decision was stressing. Too many threatening and aggressive fields surrounded Ratchet and for a long moment he felt the urge to turn and leave. But he stood still, glaring at the mech in front of him who looked more than amused.

With a final tap the mech, Swindle, sounded a sigh and moved. “The customers; getting pushier by the ano-cycle. Ah, but gotta keep ‘em happy.” He moved, waving for Ratchet to follow his lead. With a few nods, the supposed customers inside moved and allowed the both of them entrance into a back room. That was where Ratchet was shown the arsenal.

Maneuvering behind another counter, Swindle unlatched the covering and opened the display to reveal the controversial merchandise inside. “So, what’ll it be, whitey? We’ve got ions, plasmas, heaters, coolers, fusions. Anything and everything you can imagine.” He then pulled out a blaster, holding it out for Ratchet to take hold of.

It felt strange holding the weapon. The balance of it just seemed to throw Ratchet off, and the handling was odd. He wasn’t forged to hold one.

“A simple plasma blaster. Got enough firepower to keep away assailants or those who just happened to get on your bad side.” The mech chuckled, leaning over to tap his elbow against the medic to further push the joke/not necessarily a joke. But Ratchet didn’t humor him, and so Swindle leaned back and carried on with the description. “All I’m saying is you take good care of it and it’ll take good care of you. No more worrying about them dark alleys, or those shady neighbors.” He pointed to a few parts on the gun. “There’s the trigger, and this right here is the chamber cock; only two parts you need to know about it. Squeeze this for fire, and then pull this to initiate a recharge. Simple technology.”

Ratchet examined the piece of machinery further, trying to find some rhyme or reason for its design. It was when he was fumbling with it further, testing the feel of it in his grip, that Swindle spoke up again.

“And if it’s not the one for you, perhaps I can interest you in internal weaponry.” With a press of a hidden button, Swindle was showing Ratchet what lied hidden behind the wall. The weapons all varied in size, but each carried components readily available to attach to sensory circuitry. Primus, they were constructing bodily weapons now?

“No.” Ratchet shook his head, taking a step back in distaste. “No. I just want one to hold, not . . .” He looked back at the implants. He couldn’t imagine fixing one of those inside another ‘bot. It just wasn’t right.

“I hear ya, I hear ya.” Swindle closed the wall and then typed up an amount. Ratchet expected the high price, even for a small plasma blaster.

Paying for the weapon made Ratchet’s doctoral systems rush through his circuitry, issuing tutorials and often times warnings for the unlawful frame in his possession. Ratchet had to further silence these messages as he logged proper angles and regulations for his frame when holding the weapon in a threatening position. He didn’t like it, but it was for the best right then.

There was an area in Wreckage Row where the garbage collected muffled pestering sounds, ‘bots maneuvered around this place because of its its maze-like paths and dead ends, and sometimes dealings were made there. It was private in its own sense, at certain points of the day. These points Ratchet was aware of and it was where he was to test out his new purchase.

Plasma blasters were a convenience in that they were quieter than other weapons. Though, Ratchet was certain that even if he secured the likes of a fusion cannon, he wouldn’t garner too much attention in the area. The plasma energies that smote the pieces of debris hardly made a whisper compared to its more powerful counterparts.

Still, Ratchet didn’t like firing it, not because it was a faulty mechanism, but his entire programming continued to send messages, flashing warnings that he shouldn’t be doing what he was, that instead of holding the blaster he should be holding a scalpel, that instead of pulling a trigger he should be pulling out dysfunctional wiring. Continuing to ignore these messages were causing Ratchet more stress than he currently needed, and this annoyance further affected his aim.

“Fragging slag!” Ratchet about threw the gun down after an eighth misfire. He was just trying to shoot a pale canister some paces away. It really wasn’t that far, and Ratchet had the steadiest hands in all of Cybertron. So he blamed it on his anxiousness.

“So, you purchased a gun.”

Ratchet twisted his helm around to see Megatron maneuvering around the walls of layered garbage. Even from there Ratchet could look up to see the position of his clinic, constructed into an overhead arch. The lights were on and so Ratchet assumed Megatron to have come straight from there after finding it lacking of the medibot’s presence.

Looking down, Ratchet’s gaze fell on the ugly thing. A sudden urge to hide it away from Megatron’s line of sight came over him, but he refused to fall into it. Instead, Ratchet only flapped his arms, uncaring of the red gleam shining on the object in his hand.

“I did,” Ratchet confirmed. “Thought it was about time, and maybe it’d help settle your paranoia. You can call the others back, there’s no need for them to stick around anymore.” At that he turned, taking aim and shooting at the upright canister. He missed again, and his scoff only made Megatron laugh.

“I won’t be calling off anyone until you know how to proper your aim.”

Megatron was smiling as he came closer. Ratchet wanted to turn and bite back an equally snarky comment, but didn’t get the chance. In a moment he was encased in Megatron’s frame, his chassis pressing easily against his back and those large arms moving around as hands slid to elbow joints and wrist rotators. With a few movements, Megatron pulled Ratchet into a better standing and hopefully better angle to shoot.

“You look through these notches here.” Megatron pointed to the frame of the gun, showing Ratchet more features that he hadn’t cared to notice. “And right when the canister is aligned with the top diameter you . . .” A light tap from Megatron’s digits was all it took to signal Ratchet to pull the trigger and as soon as he had the clatter from a flying canister echoed around them. “Shoot.”

The red gleam and smile aiming down made Ratchet feel the pride Megatron felt inside him. Despite the controversy, even Ratchet felt a little prideful in himself from finally shooting the damn piece of garbage. And then there was the warmth, of Megatron’s hulking frame currently wrapped around the medibot. It had been once before, when Ratchet found himself unable to stop the sobs tumbling out of his mouth. The comfort Megatron had offered was endlessly appreciated and now, as he stood there, Ratchet couldn’t help but remember how nice it was, and how easily he still fit into Megatron’s frame—almost as if they were pieces meant to shift into perfect place.

With flickering optical panels, Ratchet shook his helm, clearing the static in his vocal modules and stepping forward, out from Megatron’s shadow. “You’re not a bad shot yourself, Megatron.” He glanced back, willing his fans to cool his tempting core. He watched Megatron shrug.

“I’m better with the mace,” he replied nonchalantly, much to Ratchet’s annoyance. “Still, I have to wonder; are you resorting to this because you think my protection’s improper?”

“Improper?” Ratchet was now fully turned back, his core cool. “Wha—ugh.” He rolled his optics along with his helm. “I just bought a gun, if I cared for any aspect of the word proper, I think that’d be the last part of it.” He sighed. “No, I just . . . I don’t want to burden others with my responsibility. I can handle that myself. Well . . .” He held up the gun. “At least now I can.”

Finally, Ratchet tucked the weapon away, already growing sick of feeling it in his hand. It was still an awkward object to feel in his subspace, but he would have to get used to it, at least until he put it into his desk drawer.

“There are still dangers you won’t be able to hold back with a simple plasma blaster.” Megatron motioned toward the part he placed it in, his smile gone, all seriousness shown.

“Ah, so then it would have been better to get the ion gun.” Ratchet’s smile and tone surprised Megatron and the both of them laughed at the jest, but it faded faster for the medibot, after understanding the truth behind the statements. “I’m already aware of the dangers that lurk out there. But I can’t expect to rely on you when they finally come at me. It’s not like you’ll always be there.”

“Why can’t I be?” Ratchet looked up. There was the same seriousness in Megatron’s optics, in his facial features.

Ratchet’s smile was understanding; in that he knew nothing in or of or outside of Cybertron lasted. “Come on, Megatron. Don’t tell me you’re falling for the flattery of your own pitches.”

“This has nothing to do with flattery.” Megatron reached forward and took Ratchet’s scarlet hands into his own. Ratchet knew he should pull away, but he always did like Megatron’s hands. “You’re my dearest friend, Ratchet. And I hope to be a part of your life for some time. That is, if you’d let me.”

First his writings and now his vocalized speech; Megatron really did have a way with his words. Ratchet could feel his core heating again, and he was afraid the sound of his fans would give away the unusual temperature. Flattery be damned, really.

A quiet huff pulled Ratchet’s helm down, and the doctor took to examining the pieces of garbage they were crushing underpede. “I’m a lot of work, Megatron, and you’ve got plenty of your own to handle. I don’t feel like becoming another burden.”

“When was the last time you actually watched a match?” Ratchet could hear the way Megatron’s lips were curling into a smile, his tone shifting to pull Ratchet’s processing unit away from the negativity. “Have you seen how much weight I can lift with these arms? Trust me, I’ve yet to meet a ‘burden’ I couldn’t carry.”

Ratchet found himself chuckling. A smile returned to his lip plates, even if it was a small one. “I can sure as slag give you a run for that statement.”

A brow plate rose, Megatron’s smile sounded wider. “Does that mean you’re giving me permission to carry you?”

Ratchet laughed again. He looked up, shaking his helm slightly. “Oh, how on Cybertron can you constantly make me happy as well as frustrate me?”

“Which one am I making you feel right now?”

“Frustrated.” Ratchet laughed again. Strange, he was beginning to feel lighter.

Megatron clicked his glossa, “Well, we can’t have that. Got to start making you happy.” By the shift of hue in his optical panels, Ratchet could tell a resolute route was selected. “I’ve got it, come with me.”

“Wha—?” It was too late for protest. Megatron’s secure hold on Ratchet’s hand made sure the smaller mech was tugged to the whims of the gladiator.

“I can’t recollect the last time we had some high grade.” Megatron held his smiles even after navigating through the garbage maze.

“Wh—at this hour? Megatron.” Ratchet’s plea went unheard, but damn, did he enjoy the twilight high grade.

It was always an interesting thing to experience; while the upper levels of Cybertron tended to churn over in recharge at this cycle, the sub levels seemed to come alive. Ratchet supposed that if he were really going to settle in then he might as well switch his internal clocks to accommodate.

“Don’t you have a match tomorrow?” Ratchet laid his jug down. He and Megatron were seated within a fenced patio, both musing over the traffic passing by the district.

Megatron shrugged, finishing his own amount of energon before laying his jug down. “I’ve still got plenty of time to recharge for it.”

“In upper Kaon,” Ratchet added. “Pretty early if I recall.”

“That it is.” Megatron looked at him, not a shadow of care for the reminder. “Pardon me for enjoying a drink with you more than a good night’s recharge.”

Right then Ratchet was tired of disagreeing. He sealed his lip plates and decided to try and enjoy the peace in the noise. His systems were still thrumming with the high fuel he took in, and the regret from purchasing the firearm hadn’t yet found a proper settlement inside his sensory units.

However, just in lieu of the sub levels, the peace didn’t last long.

Crowds gathered. Congestion halted advancing traffic. There was another reading.

Ratchet was impressed by the devotion, but even as Megatron’s writings were read, there was commentators, those with the loudest vocals, turning others attentions upon them for interpretation. That was dangerous.

“Megatron?” A few fellowbots which Megatron had gotten to know through after battle discussions slithered through the crowds, all smiles on their faces as they leaned against the mid fence and garnered to pull the gladiator into philosophical debating. “It’s unusual to see you out this late.”

“Midnight high grade,” Megatron replied with a raise of his jug and a nod toward Ratchet. “A treat for the both of us.”

When the optics turned toward Ratchet, the doctor only further clutched at the hood of his cloak. He could hear their snickers.

“A little public shy,” they commented with friendly enough smiles. Megatron, however, didn’t join in their expression.

“It’s the cameras.” Megatron’s optics loomed over toward the crowds, offhandedly noticing a media ‘bot or two.

The mechs seemed to understand, to an extent, but they weren’t gathered to talk about Ratchet. “You hearing this? What do you think?”

“About what?” Megatron inquired. “The writings or the commentators?”

“Both.” They motioned now to two ‘bots who were trying to decipher the meaning from the currently recited article. They were butting helms, at odds with one another’s statements.

Megatron hummed, giving audial to some of their words. “Is the article really that confusing?”

“I think it’s pretty straight cut,” one mech said.

“Nah, only the part where it talks about the strength of our sparks. The other parts are obviously metaphorical,” another said.

“I don’t know, to me, I’m getting the resistant vibe. I mean, let’s face it; the writer’s been pretty bold before. I wouldn’t put it past them to push toward this,” the other said.

“He’s pushing toward what was written.” Megatron’s words silenced his debating companions.

“Ah, but what was really written?” One mech turned, motioning toward the two ‘bots in-between the gathering, splitting the crowds with their ideals and takes. “Cyber Knight thinks it’s implying to grow the numbers of supporters while Gamalgus thinks it’s referring to shortening _their_ numbers.”

There was a glance back. Ratchet could see the red beam of Megatron’s optics pass over his arm plating. He was looking his way, but he didn’t say anything. Instead the silver mech chose to address his friends once more. “Neither are right. The strength of sparks meant endurance. In that we have a long way to strive, but our sparks are what will carry us over, that and those that stand beside us who hear us and encourage us.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah, I thought for sure Cyber Knight the most sensible.”

“Cyber Knight is wrong.” Megatron glared at the two disruptive mechs in the middle of the gathering. Already he could see the division and the ones caught in the middle of all of the confusion.

“You think so?” One of the mechs snickered, nodding toward the crowd. “Because Cyber Knight doesn’t seem to believe that. As a matter of fact, neither do the ones backing his opinion.”

Ratchet could see the annoyance on Megatron’s frame. He sat upright, his limbs tense if the curled digits around his jug were an indication. It must be frustrating; having others so sure of their opinions on your work.

He could hear him. Ratchet could pick up every word this Cyber Knight or Gamalgus was saying. He could hear the cheers of support, and he could hear the cries of disagreement, and knew that if they were bothering him, then they must be infuriating Megatron.

“Hey!” Ratchet watched one of Megatron’s companions turn, hitching his vocals just enough to carry over the crowd. “Megatron himself disagrees!”

Suddenly the crowds of Cyber Knight and Gamalgus were turning. They all knew Megatron’s face, and easily targeted him in the midst of the clogged mass of frames.

“Apologies. I didn’t know we held the great Megatron in our audience.” It was Gamalgus’ voice that carried over. It’s pitch carrying mockery more than anything else. “If you please, give us your take.”

Ratchet knows that Megatron’s gone into heated debates with his fellows. He knows that his opinions on the writings—despite them being his own—has acquired many audials over the deca-cycles. But Ratchet never fretted over those. After all, Megatron always came out of them with just as much respect and applaud as he had going in.

It was this time that Ratchet felt a clenching in his spark chamber. So much so that he hadn’t realized he had reached out and taken a hold of Megatron’s hand, digits curled and clutching. It wasn’t until he felt a light tug and then Megatron shift, red optics on him, until Ratchet realized how much he was holding onto. And why.

He knew, Ratchet knew that if he let go, that if Megatron spoke they’d listen, there’d be unity, and only because they’d understand just who Megatron really was. But it was all eventually coming to this, wasn’t it? Why would Ratchet think otherwise? So, why hold back?

There was reluctance, and, Primus, there was a struggle, but Ratchet let go. He pulled away and set his hands in his lap, keeping himself hidden and his mouth shut. There really was nothing he could do anymore.

When Megatron stood, the murmurs quieted and the bobbing stares zoned in. It was as if every audial was receiving.

“You want my take? Then I ask you this: when was any of this about adding or depleting numbers? Tell me which writing every spoke so outright of those things?” Megatron’s voice boomed over the populace. He wasn’t adding into a debate anymore, he was preaching. And they were listening. “I recall topics of strong sparks, strong processors, and dreams. It was all to the individual first, not to the mass of body. Whether only twenty in the entirety of Cybertron read and listened as compared to thousands, it was always for the individual.”

“Your claims of opinion is just another,” Cyber Knight spoke up.

“My claims are absolute,” Megatron said back.

“How so?”

“Because I’m the author.”

The crowds stood silent before Megatron no longer. Gasps, gawks, and wide optics moved the masses. Comments, murmurs, questions arose and suddenly it was chaos again. There was no turning back.

Before the accusations of falsity arose, Megatron straightened his posture. He rose his hand to the crowd, much in the same way Ratchet’s seen him do to the spectators in the arena. “My spark, your spark, his spark, her spark, their spark. They all pulse together, as one, the very frequency of Cybertron itself. And here we are, fighting, accusing, stepping on one another when we were not created for that. Our arms reach out yet we do not clasp the hands of our brothers, our legs move but we do not walk toward one another, our vocals form words but how many of them lack spite and hate? There are so many signs of what our true purposes are and we neglect and neglect and neglect them because we’re told otherwise. Why are we like this? So easy to divide ourselves and so quick to hate. We’re made for more than that, my brothers, and if we are few, so be it. Even if we are one, we are the beginning, not the end.”

That all came from Megatron. Unedited. And Ratchet watched the way the awe settled over the crowd. If any doubt lingered in the authenticity of Megatron’s claim, it dissipated then.

“These arguments are fruitless.” Megatron looked disappointed in the gathering, and Ratchet could see the regret festering. “If this is what the legacy of my writings will be then I shall write no more.”

Suddenly, gasps and mutters of apologies began rising, and Ratchet believed that if Megatron turned his back on them that they’d run after him. But he never did.

“And if I speak . . .” The crowds quieted again. “Will you listen, will you actually listen?” The silence was out of reverence and Ratchet knew that even Megatron understood this. “Are you listening?”

The hails came them, the cheers of goodwill, of brotherly love and acceptance. It was a unifying moment, one that Ratchet only wanted to sink away from. But he was there, watching it all unfold, even as he and Megatron eventually parted from the crowds and returned to their apartment, Ratchet knew that he was in the front row seat of change.

“Did you see it all, Ratchet? They listened. I thought for sure no one would believe me, but then it all came to me and I just spoke. I spoke to them and they heard me.” Megatron was bouncing, his excitement pushing any alarm of recharge out of the way.

Pulling off the cloak, Ratchet folded it. He looked at the article and wondered how much longer he would actually be able to hide under it, now that Megatron has come out.

“They want to hear me again.” Megatron was quick to swipe up the datapad sitting on the table. His smile was so wide. “I should start writing something, I don’t think I’ll be able to just come up with a piece like I did before. No, that’s definitely a one-time-thing. Don’t you think, Ratchet?”

He turned to look at Ratchet, but the medibot was silent. Too many things running through his processor.

“Ratchet, is something wrong?”

It was Megatron’s field that pulled Ratchet away from his CPU. It was close, concerned, as was the silver mech’s frame. Turning and looking at him made Ratchet’s spark feel like sinking. He could see the expectance, the want of acceptance. What was Ratchet to do?

“Why ask me?” Ratchet turned away again. It was hard to look at him. He finally knelt down to put away his cloak, making sure everything was situated in his corner. “It was your night.”

“It wasn’t intended to be.” Ratchet felt Megatron’s field reach out, brushing against his for acceptance, just as the gladiator’s hand did. Digits slid down Ratchet’s strut, the place where his medical insignia used to be, but pulled away when Ratchet didn’t open his own field in return.

“I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.” Ratchet sighed, turning and sitting himself down, back and helm against the wall, looking up at his roommate. “I’m just worried . . . it’s going to be tough, keeping up with that image and all. You’re going to become the face and guiding hand of the movement. I can’t verify what those on higher seats will think, but I expect they won’t enjoy it too much.”

“You worry over me.”

“And the movement.” Ratchet nodded. Primus, it all happened so fast, was it the right time? Was Megatron even ready? “I’m worried about where you’ll lead them.”

He watched Megatron shift until he was seating himself, right next to Ratchet. “You’ve been with me for quite a while. I believe there’s no better witness to my character than you. What do you think, Ratchet. Do you think I can do this?”

Ratchet was quiet, it was the million shanix question he’d been asking himself since he discovered Megatron’s ownership of the writings.

“I don’t think I can.” Ratchet turned to look at Megatron. The mech was looking out, and sure enough there were clear signs of doubt riddling his features and swirling in his optics. But it all shifted when he turned, when those red beams roamed down Ratchet’s face. “Not if you’re not there beside me.”

Ratchet shifted. His helm bobbing downward. “You can’t ask me to join, not yet.” He was far from ready, farther than where he’d been, but still quite a ways from the right moment.

“I’m not asking you to.” There it was again: Megatron reaching out, taking a hold of Ratchet’s hand, and Ratchet letting him. “I just want you to believe in me.”

A small smile formed. Ratchet was getting tired of frowning at that face anyway. “You know I do.” And he squeezed Megatron’s hand back.

It was too late—or really, too early—to get any proper recharge before dawn came. So the two sat there, holding hands, their frames angled, leaning against one another. The support unspoken but understood.

Change was coming, something that always frightened Ratchet, and he knew it always would. Even still, the faith was there in Megatron’s intentions, however, there was also a trouble that festered and churned inside Ratchet to the point he felt sick. It wasn’t his verified belief in his friend but rather his unbelief of the noble intentions of the governing body of Cybertron.

Ratchet knew what they could do, what they _would_ likely do, and he wasn’t ready to let Megatron fall into that. So that was the only rational reason really as to why he held onto that hand so tightly right then. Because the other reason just didn’t quite make sense to the doctor, not yet at least.

. . .

There were a few articles of writing going around. Nothing much, just a drivel of glyphs and sentences. Nonsensible structures and illiterate prose. The writings were absolute garbage.

Given their title they gathered a readership. Simple flocks of other disposables taking in illogical blather. It was expected to fade away, but the author continued to post and the readers continued to read.

Scores turned into hundreds and then into thousands. The numbers rose from there, but no respectable ‘bot would dare lower himself to take up count. There was no need to. The idealistic fad would fade away.

It didn’t.

Now, after all this time, after the writings were able to garner a substantial amount of Cybertronian support, the author steps out of anonymity. He was a gladiator. Of course he’d be. But he wasn’t just any gladiator, he happened to be Megatron, Kaon’s Champion.

The Gladiatorial Games were gaining popularity. City states from all over were constructing coliseums and training their own to compete in these lively challenges. There was even talk of a round-planet competition.

With the sudden rise of interest, it was the perfect opportunity to expose oneself. And Megatron must know what he was doing. His writings, his speeches, they were seeping out, spreading further than ever before. Fans were listening, looking at him as he expressed his ideals after every match. And the crowds just kept growing.

It was all becoming so troublesome.

“You know, I used to think it all would just dissolve,” Decimus spoke up, his helm shaking as he scrolled through his newsfeed. “You remember when it first started, Proteus?” He shifted, nudging his fellow Senator.

Proteus hummed, his processor in his own affairs while he lounged and dined with Decimus. “No,” he replied.

Blue optics flickered. “That’s the thing, neither do I. It sort of all just came out of nowhere. When I actually paid attention to it, it all exploded. Now there’s gaudy fans and even supporters. It’s chaos Proteus and I simply can’t think of a way to deal with it.”

Proteus hummed. He looked at Decimus with disinterest, but the plea in the other mech’s optics swayed him.

“You know, all you have to do to stop a movement is just shift the direction.” He left Decimus with that, hoping the Senator would be wise enough to discern his meaning. Apparently, the silver and blue mech lacked proper processor power.

“Do you have anything in mind, Proteus?” Decimus looked hopeful, anxious to be rid of an annoyance that has simply turned into a nuisance.

“If this is really bothering you, Decimus, then just change the damn gladiator’s words.” Proteus looked at the mech, and finally he saw his optics glow with understanding.

“Ah, are you saying I should inquire the Institute’s assistance?”

Proteus sighed, pulling his attention back to his own personal files. “Precisely what I’m saying, Decimus. Now, is there any other pending problems? I have appointments to make and I’d rather not be late.”

Decimus looked surprised by the push to depart, but didn’t at all stop the other Senator from rising from his seat and taking his leave. After all, he had mnemosurgeons to contact.

. . .

Ratchet had been late the previous day. Megatron had to wait a good cycle and a half for repairs because Ratchet failed to close the clinic down in the time needed to head up to the coliseum. The injuries were quite minor and there was no reason that Megatron couldn’t get assistance from the medics on staff, but it still burned Ratchet the wrong way.

And so that day Ratchet was making certain he’d close when needed, maybe even earlier than necessary just so he could make up. Not that Megatron was disappointed in him, that mech never thought Ratchet could do any wrong—a fault, naturally. But Ratchet needed to make it up to himself. He was his own worst critique, always had been.

There were two patients he was finishing work on, constantly glancing at the clocks to ensure he paid attention to his upcoming departure. When he finished with them earlier than thought he went to close, thinking it more than opportune. However, as soon as he shut and locked the door, turning off the lights he heard a tapping against the doorframe.

Rolling his helm, Ratchet carried on with his finishing tasks. “I’m sorry, but I’m closed. Come back tomorrow!” There was another tapping. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m closed!”

Packing the necessary tools, Ratchet hauled his case and began shutting off the lights. As soon as the last bulb flickered off Ratchet felt himself cringe at the sound of a third set of tapping. There was a groan and an optic roll as he made his way to the door.

He opened it, intent on facing the awaiting patient and personally scheduling them an appointment for the following morning as he locked up.

“You’re still here—” Ratchet paused, his words dying when he looked at the mech before him. He looked young, he looked frightened, expectant, but more so worried. Given that, Ratchet really was surprised he was able to discern all of that from the rudimentary head he was given, and those spreading claws. Claws.

The ‘bot before Ratchet had suffered from empurata.

“I . . .” Ratchet scanned him, even his levels were imbalanced and it made him wonder how long the mech’s been down there. “I . . . Primus. Come inside.” When Ratchet opened the door and moved in he noticed he hadn’t been followed. So he turned and waved at the mech. “Come, come.”

When he came Ratchet sat the rustic ‘bot down and quickly opened his tool case. He firstly examined, logging notes and statistics of all he found in his systems and of the functionality of his circuitry and sensors. Then he began compiling a list of remedies to create and mix to give to the mech. After all of that he took a look at the claws.

“Damn, they could have at least given you ones with better functionality.” Ratchet poked through sensor nodes, most of which were shorted out. And to think . . . this all could have happened to Ratchet. Shaking the thought away, Ratchet carried on. “What’s your designation?”

No answer.

“Don’t have one?” Ratchet once more asked after taking out a needle razer and moved it to the nodes to slice. That was when his device malfunctioned. “The frag?” Ratchet sat back, tapping the device. It worked for a moment before losing power again. “That was band new.” With a shrug, Ratchet only took out an older model and went on to finish his task. The same thing happened: his device quit working. That was when Ratchet knew something wasn’t right.

With a skeptical optic, Ratchet moved over to the counter. It was there he picked up a pressure reader. Sliding back, he sat in front of the mech, holding out the device. “I want you to hold this and try and squeeze it with all your might. The scale will let me know the capacity of your servo sensors.”

The mech did as told, but as soon as the claw twitched the device’s power faded out. Ratchet nodded then. “This happen often?” He watched the mech bow his helm, nodding. “An outlier.” Now Ratchet understood why the mech was targeted. The poor thing.

Taking the device away, Ratchet took out older contraptions, ones that didn’t rely so heavily on automatic readings. If Ratchet needed to go old school, then he would.

“Okay, I’m going to put you through some tests. Just let me know if anything gets uncomfortable, alright?” Ratchet was a little worried about patting even the mech’s shoulder plating, but nothing came of the contact and so he carried on. The mech nodded but said nothing. That was fine, Ratchet’s worked with silence before. This shouldn’t be anything different.

Except, he’s never worked on someone who went through empurata.

There was something personal in this that Ratchet needed to see to. Despite this mech being a complete stranger, Ratchet treated him with tender care and deep attention. He could see the distrust, but that was fine. Ratchet treaded as far as the mech would let him.

After testing, verifications were met. The ‘bot was malnourished, his left functionalities were glitching out because of the poor wiring in his claw, causing pain, there was hardly any rotators located near the shoulder gears which ensured the mech couldn’t properly move his new head, and those were just some of the easier observed symptoms.

“They did a fine job on you.” Ratchet shook his helm, his digits wrapping around wrist rotators and pinching. There was little reflex. With a glance toward the helm, even with the solo optic, Ratchet could see the discoloration of fear. “Look, I don’t know what you did or didn’t do, but you came here for help, so I’m going to help.”

Moving away, Ratchet began pulling out beakers and vials. He concocted three separate remedies, one for the pain, one for system clearance, and the other for nutrients. Turning, he gave them to the ‘bot.

“Take these right away, it’ll help your systems level out so I can begin surgery.” At the mention Ratchet watched the mech flinch. In an instant he had jumped to his pedes, maneuvering himself as if he was ready to dash toward the door. Ratchet realized his mistake then. “Ah, I’m sorry, it’s just a saying I can’t shake. Look, it’s only minor, temporary. I’m going to give you some gears so that you have more maneuverability, and then I’m going to correct your sensory nodes.” The fear still lingered, but Ratchet wondered if it was simply over a doctor or the procedure itself. Maybe it was both. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. You’re free to go if you’re not up to it. But I know you’ve been out there for deca-cycles, haven’t you? It’s damn near impossible to intake any amount of fuel in your condition. You’re starving, and you can’t really see. It’s frightening, I know, but at least let me give you some mobility. We’ll start there.”

The fear faded to wariness and then the desperation moved the mech back to Ratchet’s examination table. The medibot helped him intake the remedies and soon enough he was relaxing, laying down and giving Ratchet permission to work.

“I gave you something for the pain you’re in, but there will be more,” Ratchet said in honesty. “I’m not putting you in stasis because I know you’re afraid. So, if you’re up to dealing with a little more stress then I can get started on the sensories.”

The nod was all Ratchet needed to begin. He worked on the claws first. Rigid and clunky, but Ratchet managed to sod wires together and merge them into fewer nodes for better control. He made sure to keep his power tools away from heavy contact, but some of the work couldn’t be helped.

When he turned the mech over to add rotation gears at the base of his helm, he could see him beginning to shake. His claws were clutching the table as he lay chassis down. The echoing groans came from the table itself, the lift underneath it rattling as if it was hiccupping a disruptive virus. Primus . . . that’s going to cost him.

But Ratchet made due, and took the mech’s resilience and proof to carry on. When the last gear was fastened into place he took the opportunity to help him sit upright again.

“Alright, how does that feel?” The mech swayed a little, but Ratchet helped balance him until he could seat right himself. “The alignment looks about right. Turn your helm to the side for me.” Ratchet turned his own for example, and the mech followed. “Good, now the other way.” He did. “Good, good. Up, down. Perfect.” Ratchet took a step back, his fists on his hips, and a pleased smile on his lip plates. “It’ll do for now. I’ll bet it feels a little better, right?’

The mech was looking at himself, pinching his claws and turning his helm. Despite his condition, Ratchet could definitely see a form of relief.

“Where do you live?” The mech looked at him, still just as quiet, but the light in his optic told Ratchet enough. “It’s not easy down here unless you have some sort of shelter, and . . .” Ratchet already noticed some corrosion and rusted patches spotting the mech’s frame. “Judging by it, you’ve been recharging exposed.”

Ratchet really didn’t want to send the mech back out to only further damage himself. After a moment of processing Ratchet said, “Now, don’t go spreading this around, because that’s the last thing I need, but I’ll let you stay here for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll even help you look for a place. And then I can start by chipping away these spots.” He pointed to the diseased metal. “How does that sound?”

The mech looked unsure, not necessarily out of mistrust for Ratchet, more so out of Ratchet’s mistrust of him. He was glancing around, his gaze falling on the gathered equipment and the space surrounding. Ratchet understood his unease.

“If you can promise me that all my equipment will be functional come morning, I’ll let you stay tonight.” Ratchet watched that unsureness dissipate, only for a moment as the mech nodded. It was enough for him. “Well, that settles it then.”

Standing up, Ratchet gathered his tools again and slid them into the tool case. He could feel the mech’s optic following him, watching him with intense curiosity as he prepped to leave again. When Ratchet made his way toward the door the echoed sounds of following pedes stopped him. He turned and found the mech close behind, worry still stressing his frame.

“I have to go,” Ratchet bade. “I have an obligation to see to. Yours, right now, is some proper recharge, doctor’s orders.” He motioned back toward the tables. “Pick which ever you like, none are comfortable, but it’s better than the floor.” He moved to the door and took one last glance back. “I’ll be back in the morning. I promise.”

Ratchet had to push down the worry over risking his clinic to the stranger. Despite that, he felt he was doing the right thing. And to put his CPU at ease he looked back at the time as he made his way down the stairs.

“Slag!”

How could he have let time get away from him again? Well, Ratchet knew why and how it happened, but that didn’t stop him from beating himself up over the tardiness, again.

Ratchet was quite lucky that Megatron was performing sub that night. Leaving no need to hail a lift. But the traffic was always a monster to do battle with, and for most of the race there Ratchet was bipedal.

“Hey, Ratchet, long time no see.” Barricade looked more than amused at the exhausted medibot. “You come here for the match? Meg’s already done,” he explained.

“Where?” Ratchet looked around the camper. There were familiar faces all staring at him, but not the right one.

“Two cycles ago, finally convinced him to go see Painkiller,” Barricade replied, motioning toward the medbay. “Now that he’s out of the way, I could use some of your expertise. You see, my shoulder’s been—”

“Some other time.” Ratchet shook off the expectant warriors and offed himself toward Painkiller’s office. He came for Megatron, and so that’s who he’d go to. “Painkiller, I can take over.” As soon as Ratchet moved into the room he found the crude medic sawing off damaged plating. The victim a ‘bot Ratchet didn’t recognize. “Where’s Megatron?”

Painkiller tore his optics away from his work and powered down his saw. He motioned, jutting his chin. “Had some help today.” And then he returned to his work.

Ratchet rose a brow plate in confusion but moved to follow the old ‘bot’s lead. Help? Since when do pit arenas get help?

Moving into the side room Ratchet found the daily assistant, as well as Megatron. Frozen, Ratchet could only gap with wide, bright optics as this new face stood, his fingers embedded in Megatron’s cranium circuitry.

Mnemosurgery.

There was a mnemosurgeon with their digits inside Megatron’s central components. A ‘bot who was trying to rewire everything.

Ratchet only gave the mech a chance to look over toward him before he lunged. His fists met the ‘bot’s chassis and immediately their forms collided. Ratchet’s run had pushed the both of them against the wall and the unbalanced weights toppled them just the same.

In the struggle Ratchet moved to pull out his newly acquired blaster, but the bastard took notice of this too soon and quickly got a good kick against Ratchet’s helm, knocking him away and the blaster out of his grasp. Then, the medibot was on him, his needle-like digits moving down.

Ratchet rose his hands in defense, grasping around wrist rotators to keep those connectors away from him, all too aware of what they could do. But the knee to the tank startled Ratchet enough for his resistance to waver for a klik. Those digits now buried themselves into his vertebrae cabling.

“Ah!” Gritting his denta, Ratchet tried to further struggle, to pull those needles out as well as urge his processor to resist the shifting.

“Oh, you have quite the history.” Ratchet muffled another yelp of pain as those digits slunk deeper. Static was beginning to corrode his vision. “Shhh, stop struggling. I can make all that hurt disappear if you let me.”

There was the sound of a click, and suddenly Ratchet felt his arms lock. The numbness began falling all the way down his chassis.

“There, there. That’s it.” There was a wicked grin on the mech, and those amber optics clouded Ratchet’s vision. He couldn’t let him do this, not to him, and especially not to Megatron.

Before the control of his legs vanished Ratchet made his final push. A simple buck made the surgeon slip, but it was enough for Ratchet to roll him off and dislodge those digits. His senses came back in a rush and ignoring the unbalanced processor shifts, Ratchet scrambled to his pedes, optics a fire of anger.

That was when the mnemosurgeon ran.

“No!” Ratchet’s movements were flawed, and he knew it was fruitless to chase after the ‘bot, but even as he stumbled out of the room with curious optics falling on his state Ratchet didn’t desist. “Stop him! Someone stop that ‘bot!!”

His cries of distress alerted the other mechs and it was the likes of Barricade and Overlord who gave chase. The others only ever eager to surround Ratchet with their support and bodies as shields. An array of optical lights shown down upon the medibot, words of worry, upset, and paranoia muddled into the room. It was Painkiller who pushed his way through the crowd to take a look.

“What in the pit?” He knelt down and helped the struggling ‘bot.

“Please, you have to help Megatron.” Ratchet felt every pang and ping of his systematic glitches. He wasn’t certain of the damage the mnemosurgeon did or did not do. All that mattered was Megatron’s status. Ratchet hadn’t even known how long that bastard had with him. “Please!”

Even through the static, Ratchet could see Painkiller take a look in the other room. But his concern wasn’t at all placed on the stasis gladiator, instead he had the mechs surrounding lift Ratchet and put him on a table. He was the first to work on him despite Ratchet’s dejections.

“Stay still, will ya?” Painkiller laid his weight on Ratchet’s chassis, his optics a harsh glare down at him. “You’ll be the one to fix him once you’re all proper. But you gotta let me work.”

Ratchet felt that Painkiller took too long repairing him, systematic repairs were always the most time consuming, and assuming Painkiller even knew a fraction about it, nothing helped to calm the medibot whilst he lay there, static clearing from his visual receptors. The moment Painkiller moved away, Ratchet dashed back to Megatron’s side, and it was under the light of many a worried gladiator that he dug into his hardware and wiring.

As long as it took to piece Ratchet into a higher level of functionality, it took Ratchet longer for Megatron. After three reboots the doctor shot his nerves. When scarlet optics flickered on and focused, Ratchet worried they’d look at him without recognition.

“Ratchet?” There was relief there, even as Megatron sat upright, shaking his helm. “When did you get here?” That was when the medibot flung himself at the gladiator’s chassis, wrapping his arms around him and burying his frantic expressions in dented plating. He didn’t care about the curt remarks or sounds of surprise. He didn’t care about Megatron’s further comments, only about the feel of his friend’s warm chest, and the sound of a pulsing spark sounding the right frequency.

Barricade and Overlord didn’t manage to catch the surgeon, and after Megatron and Ratchet returned to the apartment, Ratchet further explained what the ‘bot had tried to do to him.

“Shadowplay . . . mnemosurgery? Such things are ordered?” Megatron mulled over the topics and the details. He shifted, much more relaxed than his counterpart who continued to pace and even check outside their lodging.

“I tried warning you.” Ratchet once more checked outside the apartment and when he pulled himself back inside he made sure all three locks were set in place. Still, none of them made him feel much safer. “Once your face comes to the public they’ll send others to erase you.”

“I suspect this has nothing to do with my notoriety in the arena,” Megatron mused. He had close focus on Ratchet, his optics following the medibot’s pacing.

“You think?” Ratchet’s optics were wide, horrified. “You’re the movement. The movement against them.”

“Yes, but it’s not as if we personally threatened anyone,” Megatron reasoned.

“But you did, don’t you see?” Ratchet approached, he stood in Megatron’s field and flared his own, one full of paranoia and fright. “Your very presence challenges their way of life so they . . . they . . .” Ratchet shook his arms. “Damn it, they were trying to rewrite you entirely.”

The thought of that is what was hammering against his spark chamber like a tactical assault. And Ratchet felt so overwhelmed to the point he just wanted to fall to pieces. He was shaking, his systems running at their utmost capacity. There’d be no recharging that night.

And then Ratchet felt Megatron’s hands on his arms, pulling him close, examining him. “Painkiller told me you fought him off.” Digits bushed against nearly indistinct markings along Ratchet’s vertebrae cable. “He tried to hurt you too.”

Ratchet pursed his lips, keeping his features strong and upset. “Not enough. I only regret not being able to catch him.”

It was when a few moments of silence passed that the fright began winning over the offensive anger. Ratchet’s lips were trembling, his denta grinding. “I wonder now, what would have happened if I didn’t manage to get him away quick enough, or even if I had just come when I was supposed to, maybe I . . .” Ratchet shook his helm to stave off those whimpering pathetic sounds. “Gah! Primus, I keep thinking what could have happened if the rewiring stuck. What you’d say, who you’d be.” There was a tender pain in Ratchet’s optics as he reached up, his hand lying flat against the line of Megatron’s jaw. This pain was already breaking through his spark chamber. “Imagining how absolutely devastated I would be if you weren’t you anymore.”

The feel of Megatron’s hand overlaying his was a comfort, and helped ease the ache in his spark just a little bit. There was a dimness in Megatron’s optics, a stillness in his form as he held his posture and extended his field to one in need of comfort.

“I am here, Ratchet.” Megatron’s digits wound around Ratchet’s hand until it was securely in his own. “For as long as you want me to be.” Gentle lips brushed over scarlet plates and knuckle joints. A quiet sound tumbled out of Ratchet’s mouth, inaudible and unimportant as deep blue optics glowed against intimate red optics.

It may have been Ratchet, or it may have been Megatron, as well as the possibility of them both, but when the two leaned into one another their lips collided in the sweetest and easiest way, and after that they were in each other’s arms. There wasn’t a moment following that they weren’t touching, brushing, clutching, kissing.

Ratchet’s core began to tempt again, but the notifications were all brushed aside as he moved his processor to focus on the way Megatron’s mouth felt against his, how his glossa slid along plates and eventually into his own orifice. The moment Ratchet suckled the appendage, Megatron’s gentleness sharpened, and his teeth pulled and tugged on the doctor’s lip plating until only he and his ministrations dominated everything about Ratchet’s mouth. Steady hands clung to the gladiator’s neck cabling, thumbs caressing and digits curling, encouraging.

It wasn’t hard for Megatron to lift Ratchet into his arms, nor was it hard for the medibot to wrap his legs around him and cling to him. Ratchet’s back met the structure of the berth, and with Megatron hovering over him, all he could do was pull him down with his hands and keep him close with squeezing thighs.

They moved against one another, their bodies and their fields igniting temperatures both dangerous and passionate. Ratchet’s hands slid down the mech’s broad back, ending to cling to gyrating hips. Megatron’s own hands roamed down Ratchet’s sensitive chassis, down his tank and then past his pelvic plates toward the warm plates of his inner thighs. Ratchet easily lost himself in those touches.

“Megatron.” Pitches Ratchet’s never used for the designation heated him, and further sounds he’d never exposed to anyone had his vents whirling to maximum. But even still, he continued to fall into the same pitch over and over again. “Megatron, oh.”

Too gentle lips made their way down vertebrae cabling, stopping particularly to give revered attention to the small marks where the mnemosurgeon’s fingers had been in. Sighs and hums exuded, vibrating from Ratchet’s frame, or was it Megatron’s? He wasn’t so sure in that moment. But one thing he was certain of was the way those lips felt perfectly against the sensitive transformation seams of his chassis.

In further need, Ratchet clutched Megatron’s helm, pulling him back to meld their lips together, and it was there they stayed while their bodies moved. Plating groaned and gears grinded, metal meeting metal as frames fought to fit themselves into one another. Pleasure hummed out of their cores and it was in that moment Megatron’s fingers slid further between Ratchet’s thighs.

Ratchet hummed, sighing into Megatron’s mouth while he rolled and rubbed himself on those treading digits. He’d never before slid his paneling open so eagerly, and with suggestive movement he encouraged Megatron’s digits to press further into the heavily lubricated passage of his valve.

“Mmmhhah!” Ratchet leaned away, helm rubbing against the berth beneath, and mouth open, shaping perfectly. The feel of Megatron’s pressing digit caressing the sensitive walls of his valve had Ratchet’s engines roaring, his own core had to enact a short emergency cooldown before the medic overheated. Displaying further approval, Ratchet rolled his hips into the touch, ensuring his lubrication cycle functioned to its fullest. Then, he felt Megatron add another digit.

Megatron’s own groans and moans of pleasure vibrated through him, humming from his mouth as he nipped and kissed his way back down those cables and seams. With three digits moving along Ratchet’s valve port now, the medibot was shaking, ready to come undone. But Megatron held him back even as Ratchet reached out, clinging, digging his own digits into silver plating, ignoring medical programing to repair.

In that moment, Ratchet didn’t want to be a medic, he simply wanted to be a lover.

With Megatron’s returning kiss, the mech filled up Ratchet’s port with the girth of his spike. The appendage slid in easily and found the silicone walls eagerly stretching to accommodate his size. The sounds of their unifications mingled between sealed lips while needy hands roamed to feel every heated plate.

The way Megatron moved drove star systems through Ratchet’s visuals, and the medibot followed. Just as the gladiator’s hips rolled down, Ratchet moved his own up, the cycle only falling in line, in rhythm. All of it made Ratchet swoon as he held onto the mech above him.

“Ratchet.” Megatron’s sigh of his designation further melted his core, and Ratchet moaned in reply, pushing out his field to tumble together, just as their frames were. “My Ratchet.”

Megatron kissed him once more before he leaned up. There was a protesting sound from the one underneath, but Ratchet hitched out a moan when that spike drove deeper inside him. The angle giving Megatron easier movement with a more satisfying amount of friction.

The vision of the gladiator’s hulking form above him made Ratchet shudder, and his membranes tighten around Megatron’s pleasure. The gleam of their optics flickered against one another, and the intense swirl of their fields only made them dizzy with passion. Sounds of absolute bliss and muttered designations further fell between them, and then the static began choking out their vocals as well as vision.

They arched into one another, optics aligned, and hands clinging, holding. They found their end together, as overload frazzled their systems and merged their transfluid. And then they pushed themselves closer than they ever had been, a tangle of ligaments. It was there they stayed until their very sparks ensured each other’s manifestation and lingering.

Ratchet fell into recharge with Megatron’s arms wrapped around him, his spike wedged inside him, and the bulk of his frame lying beside him. But Ratchet still clung to him with strong hands, as if by letting go Megatron would somehow fade away from him. So he held on throughout the entire night, never once easing his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this fic will be falling into the E rating now, for obvious reasons.   
> Haha, sorry if the interfacing was lackluster, there will me more!
> 
> To be honest; I firmly believe that if TF's want ta get intimate it's just a simple rub of sparks that gets them off, buuuut spike and valve is just so much more sexy, so, naturally, I followed along those lines. Haha, there's still gonna be spark rubs for more intimate intimates in the future, but I need the sexies just as much. :P


	7. Opportunity

“. . . no place for shelter.”

“Am I to offline in this . . .”

“. . . a shell for the garden . . .”

Ratchet stirred, his systems moving at a leisurely pace. It took only a moment for his audial to recognize the sound of a voice, familiar vocals. It was that familiarity—and perhaps the absolute comfort his entire frame exuded whilst wrapped in the strong embrace of a heavier and larger structure—that spurred the medibot to boot all of his systems. His optics onlining in the hopes to take in the visage of the one attached to the voice.

The smile on his lip plates was too natural now, a mirror to the smile facing him. Megatron’s scarlet optics were a comfort, their gleaming light a pleasure to bask in. Ratchet was on his side, his helm lain against the larger’s chassis. There was a simplistic peace just to listen to such a strong spark pulse inside that chamber.

Silver arms were wrapped around him, and a thigh wedged between Ratchet’s legs. He briefly remembers booting down to the feel of a spike nestled within his valve. The embarrassment over the disappointment of the longing for that was kept hidden.

“Mmm, what is that?” Ratchet didn’t at all mind the slow recognitions, content to let his systems rise up to proper capacity on their own accord. Right then, he shifted in slight, only to lay a little closer, deeper into that strong embrace.

“A poem.” Ratchet could now feel the glide of digits along one of his hands. He looked down, watching as Megatron took his rouge servo in his, raising it so that the gladiator’s lips could run along its surface. “It came to me this morning.”

“Let me hear the rest of it.” Ratchet felt his fans whirl, no need to cool a heated frame, but the feel of it relaxed any previous strain. He was fully settled into his lover’s form.

Megatron nodded, lips still so close to Ratchet’s hand. “This land; dried up, desolate, riddled in plague and deceit. There is no place for shelter, for nourishment, for companion. I scour the plains to find the things I need, but only fall, failing to acquire these aspirations. And there I lay, bereft of energy, of spark and spirit. Am I to offline in this barren scape, a shell for the garden of rust? My optics search for this impending answer, but lo, do I see a spark, warm and bright, compassion overflowing from its fluctuating rays as the energon from gentle hands. These hands come to me, over me, and there I find my shelter, I find recovery even in my spark. Their touch lays upon the diseased and it is cured, the rust and it is driven away, the lost and they are found. I can see Cybertron, hued in vibrant golds, springs risen up, cities agleam from the tops of their tiers to their roots, and families; lovers, brothers and sisters, hand in hand, home to home. They are smiling, they are laughing, their lives filled with quality and quantity. They are healed. I see it all in these hands.”

Ratchet’s smile never ceased. His optics were bright, aglow on every feature revealed within Megatron’s facial structure. He liked the way the mech held his hand, and he most certainly liked the way those lip plates felt against the plating.

“It’s beautiful,” Ratchet said. His vocals were at a higher frequency, less static, but the pitch was still soft. Ratchet had always enjoyed Megatron’s poetry more than his valiant writings.

Feeling Megatron’s digits continue to rub over the held hand, and then that other hand slide along his backside made Ratchet swoon. More so he felt his systems trill when the mech shifted, rolling over him. He was under those red lights again, and Ratchet loved the way it made him feel; as if he were a target, his only focus despite the world around him.

“Yes, you are.” And then Megatron was kissing him, and Ratchet was kissing him back.

Primus, why had he gone on for so long without doing this? Ratchet had been in Megatron’s company for long enough to regret not going to wrap his arms around his neck cabling sooner, not leaning in to press his mouth against his more, not shifting closer to enjoy the warmth of the other’s frame longer. And he could tell that Megatron harbored those same regrets.

Moans vibrated through mouths as Megatron ran his hands down Ratchet’s more than willing, more than pliant body. Digits glided along the seams of his chassis, making the doctor shiver. The mere touch from so sensitive a region started his fans, their whirls whining into the room along with Megatron’s own.

Ratchet’s thigh plates rubbed along Megatron’s pelvic structure. The encouraging movement soon was greeted with the gladiator’s own gyrations, and that is when Ratchet detached his lip plates to let out a pitched sound.

“The sounds you make, doctor . . .” Ratchet could feel Megatron’s moving lip plates run along his neck cabling, and each word began dropping pitches into a deeper frequency, one Ratchet recollected from the previous night.

There was a tension that racked through his entire sensors, but a good one, one that originated from the way Megatron’s hand rubbed down pelvic plating and over intimate panels. Ratchet’s valve had been open, and the medic wondered if he had subconsciously slid the paneling back or if said paneling had been left in such a state since the night before. There really had been no proper time to dwell on this mystery when Ratchet moved with the ministrations of that coaxing hand, his lubrication cycle already spilling onto Megatron’s palm.

“How tangled we were last night.” Ratchet could feel the shape of Megatron’s smiles as he leaned over him, running lip plates and glossa over seam, plating, and cord. It was almost too easy to zone in his attention to its deviant path hadn’t that rubbing hand between his thighs suddenly wiggled in two digits into his slick valve. _Two_ , _ohhh_ , they must not have been disconnected for long. “I do wonder if you realized just how _tangled_ we were.”

Ratchet huffed out a moan when those digits circled, running along ridges and teasing over nodes. His plating felt hot, and by the rising count from his core’s temp, it wasn’t going to be cooling any time soon. And he hated the way Megatron wasn’t as bothered.

Reaching out, Ratchet ran his hands over seams, plucking at plating, and then finally resting against the silver mech’s hips, gripping, pulling. “You ever think I may have wanted to boot up to that?” He leaned forward, nipping at lips, and when his denta finally latched a hold onto a plate, he tugged.

There were rumbles vibrating out of Megatron’s large chassis. It shook Ratchet’s own frame, more so when those sounds combined with the gladiator’s vocal modules. Those deep toned pitches sounded animalistic and it served to melt the medic more.

The kisses they shared following were nothing but denta and mouthing. Their glossas tangled, much as their frames were, intent to bite and taste. Sounds were swallowed and ventilation felt, a good enough distraction for when Megatron pushed his spike into him again.

However, Ratchet wasn’t so easily deterred away from the feel of the appendage sinking in and stretching his silicone walls. Nodes were pushed against and activated to ensure Ratchet felt every breach. A mess of his systematic lubrication and Megatron’s previously spilt transfluid painted the rod with light blue liquid that displaced each time he slid the length back into the valve’s depths.

Back in the Academy it was required for a model’s seals to be done away with. Whether it was out of necessary experience or an order from a less-than-enthused headmaster, the matter was still unsolved. ‘Bots were paired and roomed, the intention to be completely impersonal. And while the memory log would be one eternally stored, there really wasn’t much personal in regards to the act.

Ratchet was paired with a large mech, a flier. He was a gentle soul and he and Ratchet both took the opportune turns dislodging their array seals. In a way, Megatron reminded Ratchet of the flier, though only in equation to size. Granted, Ratchet believed Megatron might actually have an additional ton of more mass than the other, but just as he had before, the medibot took this large mech in stride, and he remembered how much he enjoyed the role of outlet.

“Megatron, right there . . .” Ratchet keened out a noise as his hands dug into plating. His optics were vivid and bright as he looked up to his lover, his protector, his friend. “Right there. Just a little . . .” Helm rolled back, it was like Megatron knew what Ratchet was saying, what he was needing. And as their bodies rocked against one another, moving so fluently, so perfectly, Ratchet felt the side of Megatron’s spike rub against that hidden node. He hitched, bucking and circling his legs around Megatron’s waist, clamping down to keep him there at the right spot that made his optical watts fluctuate and sparkle.

There was a stutter in Megatron’s movements, but nonetheless pleasant for the ‘bot writhing underneath him. “Primus, you don’t know how good you look right now.” His vocals were strained, laced with patches of static and deeper pitches. Ratchet loved the way the frequency twisted into his audio receptors and moaned to let the other understand this. “How can you feel so perfect?”

“Oh!” Ratchet moved his helm to the side, arching as his pelvic sensories charged, dispersing the current throughout his frame, making him shudder and shake. There was a wave that washed over him, the same time as Megatron pressed his weight into the final thrust that dispersed his accumulated transfluid. Static crackled vocals and sparks danced across optical paneling.

Limbs shook with overload and fans whirled in the attempt to begin cooling down overheated cores. It wasn’t a moment later that Megatron moved his full weight down onto the medibot, positioned in such a way to pin, not crush. The only crush he exerted upon him was with his mouth, and Ratchet welcomed the weight of those lip plates.

Contentment and absolute bliss surged through his programming, and Ratchet couldn’t care for anything else more than those feelings, and the one of Megatron above him, on top of him, and inside him. He might have never come down from the stratosphere hadn’t he grown curious of the time.

“Wait, what time is it?” Pulling his mouth away, Ratchet took the moment to pull up his internal clock to validate his assumption. He could sense Megatron’s displeasure from the break by the way the mech moved his lips elsewhere like his cheek, his jaw strappings, his vertebrae cabling. He tried to capture his lips again, but Ratchet once more shook his helm away. “No, it’s fragging late!” Ratchet rolled and bucked his hips as a sign, but Megatron looked reluctant to both move and retract his spike.

“And?” Megatron once more moved his lips down Ratchet’s frame, particularly to his chassis seams.

Hands pushed this time despite the thrilled shutters shaking Ratchet’s resolve. “ _And_ that means I need to head to the clinic and you to upper Kaon. You have a match due in four cycles.”

“I am content to forfeit.” Megatron’s vents sighed out cooler. His hands roaming, groping. “If only I can continue interfacing with you.” He moved down to kiss Ratchet again, the medic let him.

“And you can, after your matches.” Ratchet tapped the mech’s thick chest plating. “Now out and off, we’ve got jobs to do.”

The dramatic sigh sounding from his berthmate made Ratchet want to laugh, but he had to keep his resolve. “Passionate one moment and the next it’s all business.” Megatron finally rolled off of him, helm shaking while an amused smile moved his features. “So very like you, doctor.”

Ratchet meant to look at Megatron with a face full of snark, but his smile was soft and optics a shade lighter. His will to defend his resolve only melted away, and Ratchet just blamed it all on the larger mech standing a pace away, expressions mirroring his own with the desire to take him back into his arms bare in the lighting of his optics. If it wasn’t Megatron, then Ratchet had to resist for the both of them.

Even knowing of the previous repairs, Ratchet still insisted to give Megatron a quick scan before deeming him suitable to go forth and partake in his gladiatorial duties, however their evolving relationship made the examination slightly more challenging. Hands that moved to test for reflex functionality and strength pressure only reminded the two of the way those same professional servos glided along heated panels, tugging at intimate seams, and groping at areas of a mech uncomely. It was all amusing at first, especially for Megatron who held a sharper smile at seeing the medibot flush with misplaced embarrassment, but even after the silver mech’s own short shutters the two agreed he was in top condition to depart.

Ratchet would be moving toward the door with Megatron hadn’t he laden himself with one last task before leaving the apartment. It turned Megatron’s attention and it made him lean in, humor further coiling in his field.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen upkeep keep you, Ratchet,” Megatron mused, watching as the medic took an electric scraper to parts of his frame.

“I’ll only take a moment,” Ratchet said, giving Megatron a quick glance before nodding toward the door. “No need to wait for me.” For as long as it has been since he’d been banished from Iacon, Ratchet understood the casualty of his pristine white and red painting. However long he managed to mind and care for the accumulated scuffs and scratches, Ratchet was well aware he would not be able to rub or scrape off every blotch, but after his tumble with Megatron he came to the quick realization how easily white clung to darker shades, and the patches transferred from the interfacing was more than embarrassing for the medic.

If Ratchet didn’t take some time to rub away the paint transfer then it would be painfully obvious what he and Megatron had been up to.

Huffing, Ratchet turned the machine off and examined the cleanup. “Primus, is that all I can do?” While the few transfers along his chassis were faded, they were still there. But of course the harder-to-erase blotches happened to dot along his thighs. Of which would be harder to explain away.

In his frustration, Ratchet looked over to see Megatron still standing, still in the apartment. That smile, those brighter optics, it infuriated the medic. Before he could let that infuriation settle in, Ratchet’s scanners detected copious amounts of his own white paint dotted along Megatron’s frame, notably near his chassis and pelvic structure.

Turning on the scraper, Ratchet approached. “Let me help,” Ratchet said, taking the device to a patch. “You can’t let the others see you like this.”

Ratchet paused when he felt a hand wrap around his wrist rotators. He looked up, Megatron’s expression hadn’t changed. “And why not?”

Why not? Ratchet internally scoffed. Was Megatron trying to play ignorant, or was he just that?

“Well because . . .” Ratchet groaned. “Because they’ll know—” He felt and watched Megatron push his hands away, scraper included.

“Good.” Megatron’s smile was sharper, his field heightened with pride. “Let them know who I fragged.” He then reached out, arms once more encircling around Ratchet, pulling him close, letting their chassis rub together, letting a few paint patches transfer. “Perhaps it’ll teach them, and everyone else, to not touch you.” A hand moved down Ratchet’s face, gentle and slow. When Megatron kissed him the medibot submitted and simply basked in the enacted affection.

With lips detached, Ratchet could only lay his helm against Megatron’s warm chest plates. He snickered then. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Megatron tapped his finger against the medic’s chin, moving him to look back up at him. “I’ll gladly wear you on me for all eternity.” His smile lacked tease despite his words, and his following kiss was just as passionate, but unfortunately shorter. “I will see you this evening.”

Megatron left Ratchet in a daze. The medic hadn’t even realized the scraper was still buzzing in his hand until some kliks later. Shaking his helm, Ratchet briefly worried over a glitch in his core processor, but moved that worry out of the way toward the newly acquired patches of scuffs along his chassis and arms. Damn Megatron.

After doing what he could and living with what he had, Ratchet took his tool case with him and headed out toward his clinic. He cringed when he noticed the large gathering aligned from the front door and beyond. He was late, he knew that, and now he had to fight through said crowd to get in as well as keep them out for a moment so he could prep his workspace. That was going to be fun.

“Alright, step aside, step aside!” Frustrated and worrying optics turned on him, murmurs and groans sounded, and then hands reached out. Ratchet did all he could to keep himself from being absorbed into the crowd.

“Doctor, I came back because my schematics haven’t given any code.”

“Doctor, please look at my rotators. They haven’t been moving since last deca-cycle.”

“Doctor Ratchet, my friend took a tumble and the crack in their helm has caused optical offlinement.”

“Doctor!”

“Doctor Ratchet!”

“I know, I know,” Ratchet bade, finally managing to squeeze his way to the door and enter in the code. The door hissed open and Ratchet was trying his best to back in and ensure no one got inside. “I’ll see you all soon, give me a moment to prepare the clinic and then I’ll open.” With a simple command the door shut with a lock. He huffed. That could have ended extremely bad, thank Primus it didn’t.

Turning, Ratchet started. Slamming a hand to his chassis, Ratchet caught himself. The sight of the singular-opticed, clawed individual standing just a pace away had rolled his systems. He’d almost forgotten about the kid.

“That’s right, you’re still here.” Ratchet approached him. He was standing away from any electrical equipment. His positon was awkward and all Ratchet wanted was for the ‘bot to sit down. “Sorry for coming in so late, there were things I had to attend to . . .”

Laying down his case, Ratchet went to flick on the lights. He then began booting the surrounding machines. Looking over his shoulder he noticed the ‘bot still standing, just watching.

“If you want, could you start up the kiosk in the front? You don’t have to do much, just press the switch on the side and it should boot up.” Ratchet could hear the mech move, doing as he was told and for a moment, Ratchet looked back, watching as the ‘bot looked over the machine he was assigned to. He wondered about his story, about what he was feeling right then, and he wondered what would inevitably happen to him. In the end, Ratchet wondered if he would help in any way.

The sound of a loud pop echoed across the clinic. Ratchet stood, turning and moving toward the front room. Right there he noticed a small lick of smoke rising up above the kiosk. He looked toward the only ‘bot present.

His helm was down, his claws clutching one another and he was trembling. It wasn’t easily noticed, but Ratchet’s keen optics took note of it. Looking back to the malfunctioned machine, Ratchet only sounded a sigh.

“You know, I needed a new one anyway.” He watched the ‘bot look at him with a bright optic. Ratchet smiled and waved him toward a seat. “You can sit. It’s about to get busy, hope you don’t mind waiting it out.”

There was a nod and just as the ‘bot sat Ratchet let the throngs of patients inside. It was mayhem and it never really ended. Without his kiosk, Ratchet was having to act as the information center, logging down designations, ages, models, and ailment dates. Simultaneously he was attempting to examine the mechs and femmes, mixing formulas, performing repairs, and issuing out checkup dates. While before he was frustrated over his taken time, now he bemoaned about the loss of that damn machine.

But Ratchet soldiered through it all, doing what he could and accepting the thanks and gratitude and the smiles on the ‘bots he helped recover. It was that which kept him functioning, kept his processor focused on the duties at hand. And he was admired for that.

“Someone help!”

Not that Ratchet wasn’t used to the wailing and cries for assistance from the scores that came to him, he still turned his helm from the vertebrae cabling he was working through to see a small mech come running in.

It really was amazing that Ratchet could even see him at all with his stature, but zoning optics caught the movement around those lounging in the waiting room. The mech was a violet color, moving as fast as he could between pedes.

“It’s my brother!” He cried out, looking around for the staff only to be met with curious optics gazing down at him. When he turned, however, he zoned in on Ratchet’s form. Something clicked and he ran up to him, recognizing him as the doctor. “Doctor! Doctor, please!”

Ratchet didn’t move away from his patient. “And where is he?” Remaining calm and collected was easy. More often than not, the panicked and insistent ones harbored no real emergency. He assumed so with this case, but still kept his optics on the little ‘bot.

The mech let out a sound before he turned on his heel and darted back out of the clinic again. Ratchet wondered if he would ever see him again. With a shrug he turned back to his work.

Just as he was about to finish welding a cabling back into a gasket the clinic shook. Ratchet quickly pulled the weld back, hissing at how close he was to burning right through the occipital plate and damaging the sensitive circuitry inside. As he looked over the clinic shook again and that was when his patients began panicking.

“What in the slag?” Ratchet quickly put his tools away and stood, looking around for the cause. There was nothing to be seen until he heard a cry.

“Please! My brother!”

There was that little ‘bot again. He was coming in, dragging with him a near identical mech. The only problem was that the black and red one was convulsing to the point his alt mode was shifting haphazardly. One of his arms was moving, pounding against the ground, shaking the entire structure of the clinic and the shops it was surrounded by.

“You idiot!” Ratchet gasped. He tipped forward, grabbing onto a table just as soon as the building shook again. “Why did you bring him inside?!”

“Please!” The violet mech cried out, the distress on his face was evident, as well as the pain he must be in from holding onto his brother. “Please, you gotta help him!”

“Out of the way!” Ratchet had no choice but to barrel through frightened spectators, and soon enough he was kneeling down, trying his hardest to grab a hold of the ‘bot. With a quick visual scan, Ratchet came to the conclusion of what he was witnessing: a misalignment surge, resulting in a core overload. If Ratchet didn’t manage to strap him down and get to him soon, the small ‘bot would offline.

“You’ve got to hold him down!” Ratchet looked at the brother, even his frame was shaking from the force.

“I’m trying!” he called back, but it didn’t much help.

Lighting was flickering, some panels popping, and his equipment rattled, some vibrating off the counters and cluttering to the flooring along with stored chemicals. It didn’t take long for frightened patients to stumble over themselves in an attempt to escape the crumbling clinic. Ratchet remained, knelt over, trying to get a grip on the convulsing ‘bot to counter the surge.

There was one other ‘bot now. He knelt down, silently offering his help. And just as he reached out, Ratchet waved him away.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to hurt yourself if you try anything!” The flooring finally cracked and it caused the medibot to topple to the side. “Primus! This whole place’s gonna be brought down!”

Optics shown bright as Ratchet watched the silent mech reach down. His claws caught hold of the small ‘bot, but the shakes and his out of control arm only pounded into his hands and arms. The crunch of metal bounced from audio receivers and the sizzle of bared circuitry snapped into the space around them.

“Stop! What are you doing?!” Ratchet managed his footing again and tried to approach, but just as he got close enough a loud churning, like unbalanced gear rotators, sounded and then it all stopped; the sound, the movement, the tremors.

The small mech lay limp in damaged claws.

“Frenzy?” The brother moved, but then froze. “Frenzy!”

With a curse, Ratchet took the small mech from the other’s claws and laid him down. He quickly opened his chassis and pulled out jump cables. In only a few kliks he sent a surge straight through the chamber to reignite the dispersing energy. He did it three more times until the ‘bot’s visor flickered and the sound of static coughed out of his mouth.

“Frenzy!” The brother came, falling to his side and sobbing over him.

“Will you move out of the way? I’m not finished with him.” Ratchet didn’t mean to interrupt their reunion, but he really needed to ensure the little one’s core was stabilized and his systems balanced. He didn’t want it happening again.

With a sniffle, the brother nodded, moving back, but only a fraction. He held his brother’s hand the entire time as Ratchet worked to correct the misalignment and the improper level balances. After finishing what he could he closed the small chassis and looked at the two.

“You’re lucky you brought him in when you did.” Ratchet omitted the mention of the current state of the clinic. He was certain the two understood. “I gave you a leveled energon cleanser as well as a replenisher. Your systems should balance out in a few cycles. But I want to see you back first thing in the morning. During the seizure you dislodged some functional components, if you let it go you’ll end up losing complete functionality of both your arms.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Frenzy’s voice was sounding better, and even as his brother helped him stand he leaned heavily on the other.

“And you,” Ratchet looked at the violet one. “I want to take some tests for you as well. Judging from what I’ve found I can assume the both of you haven’t been able to meet the fuel system quota. I’m sure your brother wouldn’t want to see you like that.”

The mech looked at his brother. Frenzy’s face showed the same concern and with a weak nudge, he urged him to go into Ratchet’s hands. The brother’s name was Rumble, and he was quite complacent during the tests. While depleted, he was fairing better than his brother, but Ratchet still sent him away with formulas and dated appointments.

“I’ll never forget this, doc.” Rumble looked up at Ratchet as he helped himself and his brother out of the tarnished clinic. “You need anything, you just let Rumble know.”

Ratchet snorted. It’s not like he hasn’t heard those lines before. “You’re in no position to make such promises. Remember, tomorrow. I expect to see the both of you about a quarter to mid.”

They nodded and then left. Ratchet felt his tense systems ease, the whirl of cooling fans doing their best to calm heated cores and overrun circuitry. When he turned he remembered crushed claws. The silent mech stood, patient and obedient.

“Come here.” Ratchet had closed the clinic, and was certain those outside understood why. There was a mess to clean up, and it all started with broken claws.

Assessing the damage made Ratchet groan. It was foolish to try to grab the small mech in that state, but without the act, Ratchet wasn’t certain the clinic would still be standing.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Ratchet pulled out some pliers, unbending damaged plates to then disassemble broken joint locks. He’d have to replace a lot of components in the servos, luckily claws weren’t overly complicated. “It put you in more danger and . . . well, look at them. He destroyed your claws.”

The mech bowed his helm, optic flickering. Ratchet sighed and moved toward the drawers to pull out new gears.

“It was reckless, but you did save him.” Ratchet paused, recollecting what he witnessed. “Well, in a manner of speaking.” He then looked at the mech closer. “Before, you could shut down machinery, but I never experienced any trouble touching you.” He looked down, his hand slowly laying over the mech’s arm, tempting fate. Nothing happened. “You stopped him. Completely.” Ratchet mulled his reasoning. “Can you control that?”

The mech shrugged, but there was a short nod. Of sorts.

“I really wish you’d talk to me.” Ratchet leaned over the damaged claws again, pulling at sparking wiring. “At least give me a designation.” He looked at the mech, there was a smile on his lip plates. “So I can properly thank the ‘bot who saved that mech, and my clinic.”

There was still silence, but it didn’t deter Ratchet from carrying on with his work and still thanking the mech for what he had done.

. . .

Orion let out a sigh. Skeptical, but understanding the situation, he still gave Prowl a credulous look. “Are you sure.”

Prowl nodded, stance resolute. “It isn’t safe.”

Orion couldn’t argue with that, despite his own opinion on the deeper matter of it all. “It’s just . . . strange, don’t you think?”

“Strange?” Prowl shrugged. “Coincidental, ironic? Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that the Megatron of the anti-functionist movement is _the_ Megatron who Ratchet knows.”

“I know.” Orion’s processer ran deep. “It’s just hard to believe.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” Prowl brought up captures of Megatron’s image in the ring, and then amongst scores of ‘bots gathered to hear him, to follow his ideals. Other captures were in part due to media clicks, pictures for fans of the gladiator, and in turn the revolutionist. It was in those pictures the both of them noticed reoccurring companions, a notable one was a cloaked mech, but those white pedes and rouge servos tugging down a concealing hood were unmistakable. “That’s Megatron, and _that’s_ Ratchet.” He paused, drumming his digits. He obviously looked more worried than Orion. “Do you think he’s a part of the movement?”

Orion browsed through the photos Prowl had singled Ratchet in. “Ratchet’s never shown any interest in the subject before.” None of the pictures of the gatherings showed any deeper evidence of Ratchet’s involvement. The crowds were big, so it was hard to discern, but Orion couldn’t believe his friend had changed his standing so suddenly. “And I honestly don’t see him in the gathering captures.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t involved in some way,” Prowl warned.

Something about the warning irked the officer. Not that he wasn’t thankful for Prowl’s assistance and loyalty. His access to Elite files was invaluable, but Prowl was still an acquaintance, if not to Orion and the others by now, he still was to Ratchet.

Prowl hadn’t schooled with Ratchet, hadn’t dined with Ratchet, hadn’t taken breaks with Ratchet, hadn’t just sat down and talked with Ratchet. These accusations were understandable from the Praxian’s position, but not to Orion, and he was certain the others would feel the same. Orion knew Ratchet and he knew he would never align himself with a movement like that—no matter who he knew. Pits, even if it was Orion himself, he was certain Ratchet wouldn’t give a flying slag.

“It’s dangerous,” Prowl continued to press. “Do you know what the Guard thinks of this movement?”

“I’ve heard things,” Orion explained. “But it’s harmless. They’re harmless.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Prowl said. “Sentinel Prime himself is considering setting up a station in Kaon. And it’s not in regards to civilian protection.”

Orion nodded. “Have they moved to that decision?”

“No,” Prowl said. “As you said; it’s not dangerous, yet. Primus, what if it turns that way? Not that I’m concerned for the movement, but your friend. He’s really mixed in with the wrong crowd.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Orion stressed. “Our options really are limited. On one hand Jazz has informed us that Ratchet’s received immense protection from Megatron and his compatriots. On the other, if what you’re hinting towards becomes a reality, then that protection will only turn into a cage.”

“If things don’t settle down, and from the looks of it, it won’t, then if Ratchet’s found to be involved in any way—”

“He’s not,” Orion affirmed. He just couldn’t be. He knew Ratchet.

“You can’t be sure,” Prowl reminded.

“Fine.” Orion moved. “Then I’ll just have to pay him a visit, won’t I?” Besides, he’s been looking for an excuse to do so. He missed Ratchet immensely, and to see him in the metal would be a relief on his part. It was a route he was going to take.

. . .

Megatron had believed that once he was confirmed as the anti-functionist ring-leader that he’d be tossed out of the Gladiatorial Games. That he was proven wrong was a surprise, more so was the sheer mass of the crowds he gathered, in and outside of the arena. It was all a platform now, and he smiled when the throngs listened.

Even then, in upper Kaon, the crowd cheered his name after his victories over his opponents, and even became obedient when he addressed them, asking for their support in lieu of the games, as well as his ideals. And as the crowds roared with his acceptance, Megatron began to understand that his position was divine, a stage to reach more audials. Even if he was censored from the frequencies, he could not be shut down during his live performances, and it’s from there he received his most avid support. And given the recent surge of spectators, said support wouldn’t be declining any time soon.

Due to the previous day’s incident, Megatron did not move alone. Not that he doubted any of his own abilities to defend himself, his friends and brothers-in-arms came and served at their own loyalty. They were dear friends and their devotion only turned his spark to them, and Megatron assured he would not fail their efforts.

If his escort believed they were meant to preserve Megatron’s standing, then Megatron would work just as hard to see their inline ideals come to light.

When commotion rose from those protectors, Megatron turned to see a group of four mechs. From the looks of it they attempted to walk up toward him without permission from his perimeter. And there they stood, three of them showing expressions of offense while the fourth remained hidden behind a mask, emotionless and silent.

“What is your business with Megatron?” Lugnut pushed, exuding threat.

“We bring a message,” one of them spoke. “From Senator Ratbat.”

“That so?” Barricade poked at the group. “Shame he didn’t come himself. If it’s so important, tell him Megatron likes in-person talk next time.” He poked again, trying to ward them away, but it was Megatron who held up a hand to stop them.

“Let them come,” Megatron motioned. He could see the reluctance from his companions, and they were more than eager to sneer and glare at the group approaching, but Megatron spoke his order. “What is this message?”

It was the silent one. He approached Megatron, looking at him for a moment before holding out his hand. There was a holocom in his palm, and in a matter of kliks it lit up and shifted into the senator’s shape.

‘ _Ah, there he is!_ ’

“Senator Ratbat.” Megatron nodded toward the hologram. “I didn’t know you were a viewer. Did you enjoy the show?”

‘ _Extremely_ ,’ Ratbat said, a smile on his face, though his optics continued to observe the wary companions surrounding Megatron’s person. ‘ _It must be a delight; making it big in Kaon. If my sources are right, you started in the sub levels, resorting to it after the mines shut down_.’

Megatron rose a brow plate. “Are you a fan or an investigator?”

Ratbat chuckled, seeming friendly enough, but Megatron wasn’t one to be swayed by those foolish wishes, especially in concerns to a Senator from Iacon. ‘ _Oh, a fan, especially now. You were magnificent out there, Kaon’s pride certainly. I’m sure you’re aware of the Games’ popularity. Slag, even Iacon is constructing an arena. How times change, am I right?_ ’

Megatron didn’t chase the friendliness. “What is it you want, Senator?”

‘ _A mech who knows how to get to the point, I like that_.’ Ratbat shifted his posture, straightening as if trying to make himself proper to stand before a structured frame like Megatron’s. ‘ _What I came here for was to make a proposition. I want to sponsor you_.’

Megatron had to let his processor whirl for a moment. “You want to sponsor _me_?”

‘ _No hidden meaning behind it_.’ Ratbat nodded. His smile made him seem proud, as if his anticipation of Megatron’s answer would be positive. ‘ _I’m a simple mech who knows where profits are. And the Games are in. Naturally, I’m among many that foresee round-planet competition, and I’m making sure I’m the first to get to you. Believe me, you’ll get offers in the not-so-distant future_.’

“Is that right?” Megatron crossed his arms. He was listening, as well as contemplating the legality of it all, and his position in such a standing.

‘ _Blackout, Iron Clasp, they’ve already been signed. And it’s all heading south. Imagine my regret if I let this opportunity slip from me. Honestly, Megatron, you’ll get no better offer than mine_.’

Megatron jutted his chin. “That is for me to decide. What would your sponsorship entail?”

‘ _Simple; I pay you to represent me. Logos, company seals, and other advertisements will be expected during your tour, of course, but with the credit I’ll give for just that, I don’t think it would be too much for you to do. Slag, I’ll even give you your own tower in Iacon_.’

Megatron’s lip plates twitched. “I quite like my home here.”

Ratbat cocked his helm. ‘ _Really?_ ’ He collected himself quickly. ‘ _Alright, then there will be expense-free travel. Like I said, it’s not official, but I know there’s going to be a round-planet competition in the near future_.’

“And what is to become of me and my sponsorship in the meantime?”

‘ _Anything you want to become of it_ ,’ Ratbat assured. ‘ _Promotion, naturally. Primus knows Kaon could use it. Some extra income would make any mech a happy ‘bot, eh?_ ’

“I’ll think about it,” Megatron replied. “Perhaps after I run into other offers.”

Ratbat didn’t look thrilled about the reply. ‘ _I wish you wouldn’t, but, if you insist. This is Soundwave, my messenger. Keep in contact through him, and try not to take too long. I’m not quite on good terms with my anxiety_.’ With a chuckle he ended the call and the communicator was put back into the silent one’s subspace.

Soundwave stared at Megatron, just as silent as his companions. With a small incline of his helm he turned and departed with the rest.

“You really going to become a senator’s lackey?” Barricade slid up beside him, red optics glaring at the group’s retreat.

“Come now, Barricade, I thought you knew me better than that.” Megatron offered a reassuring smile, but the rest of the ones around didn’t seem at all relaxed to the notion.

“So, you won’t do it.”

“It depends,” Megatron looked at his mechas. “This might prove to be an excellent opportunity, not only for me, but for the movement.”

. . .

“That should do it.” Ratchet leaned back and then handed the mech a tablet. “Easy with this one, alright? Write something down so I can see if the joints and sensors are aligned.”

Claws scrawled over the tablet and once the mech turned it over and showed Ratchet, the doctor saw a decent set of glyphs. Understandable, it verified functionality in the servos. But reading the glyphs, Ratchet took a moment to process what he was reading.

“’They call me Glitch.’” Ratchet paused, looking at the rustic mech. He stood then, shaking his helm and taking up the tablet to put away. “Glitch? Like slag. _They_ may call you that, but _I_ won’t. It’s not even a proper designation.” Shaking his helm again, Ratchet felt upset seep into his systems. Who would go by such a name, much less accept it? He looked back at his silent companion, this “Glitch.” It just wasn’t right. “No, it won’t do. We’ll think of something better.”

They cleaned up what they could, but the damage was there and needed to be dealt with. Sounding a sigh, Ratchet felt his reluctance to leave the clinic and go and inform Megatron about the occurrence. He’d cry over the funds later.

Turning, Ratchet looked at Glitch. Primus, that damn name. “I know I told you I’d help find you a place to stay today, but, well . . . things happened.” Not that Ratchet could have controlled that. “Now I’m reluctant to let you stay here.” A glance over only reminded Ratchet of the damages. The costly damages. “Look, I’ve got to head to upper Kaon, and well, what say you to joining me? They’ve got some good energon level-side. It’ll be my treat, for your help today.”

There was an unsure field that Ratchet felt and he was about to tell the mech that he had every ability to refuse the offer, but before he could even say anything Glitch nodded. Ratchet’s smile widened and in the next moment he was packing up his tool case and pulling on his cloak, and then heading out the door with Glitch in tow. With a promise of upcoming grade fuel, Ratchet still brought him along to the arena.

“I know this is a strange scene, but try to ignore the comments and stares. They really are just working for a living.” Ratchet continued guiding his companion down the halls, himself ignoring the aggressive fields of warriors and fighters. He could see Glitch’s unease, it only reminding the medibot of his first times in the pits. It seemed like such a long time ago now. “And you’re going to really like Megatron. He’s one of the most understanding ‘bots I know, and has no qualms with speaking his mind, for himself and for others.” Ratchet patted Glitch along his shoulder plating before motioning him into an open room where a set of familiar faces greeting the doctor.

“Ratchet!” Barricade was all grins as he approached. He was also the first to take an interest in his companion. Circling, he hummed. “You know you’ve got a tailer?”

“He calls himself Glitch, _but_ , we will not be calling him that. I’ll think of something,” Ratchet assured, turning now toward the others, in the midst he found Megatron conversing with the likes of Lugnut and Overlord. Whatever it was halted the moment Barricade announced Ratchet’s entrance.

“How was your matches?” Ratchet couldn’t help the smile tugging his features when he laid his optics on the large mech. It helped that Megatron’s own gaze was aligned with his own, never once breaking it to give his attention to another.

It was without words that Megatron moved away from his conversation companions, pushing further out of the ring of trusteds to come and take a hold of Ratchet’s helm, tugging him slightly as he, himself, bent to press his mouth to the doctor’s.

The silence made Ratchet’s facial plating heat.

“Expected, but not expected.” Barricade only cocked his helm at the sight, arms crossed and features studying like many of the mechs present.

Pulling away, Megatron remained close. “They went very well.”

Ratchet finally gathered his bearings enough to push at Megatron’s chassis, making sure there was a proper distance. “I can’t believe you did that in front of everyone!” He rubbed his face, trying to override his systems to enact the cooling component. Megatron’s chuckle didn’t help.

“It’s not like they don’t know.” Megatron’s hands were on his hips, rubbing at the white patches of paint collected thereon. His smile only sharpened. “Not anymore at least.”

Ratchet only shook his helm with a groan before trying to return to his original train of thought. Putting down his tool case, he opened it and said, “Let me examine you. You seem fine enough, but I want be certain.”

Megatron only nodded and took a seat as the medic came over him, the optics around only followed his movement and studied their interaction. While Megatron hadn’t gained any serious injury in the matches, Ratchet was always the ‘bot who could find something to fix. The mech had skill.

Just as Ratchet began banging out a dent on Megatron’s shoulder strut the larger reached up and took hold of his hand. “How was your day, Ratchet?”

Looking at him and his soft features, Ratchet then glanced down at the hand holding his. Those digits rubbed, gentle and patient. He needed to pull away to finish his job, but he enjoyed Megatron’s hands, especially when they were holding his own.

“It was . . .” How could Ratchet word it to not blare alarm as well as get himself out of a longer explanation? “A day.” He offered a smile and then nodded toward Glitch. “He helped me out with an unruly patient. I promised him some high grade.”

Megatron turned his attention toward the other ‘bot. Ratchet knew he noticed the state he was in, judging by the way calculating optics glared over the ugly helm and claws, but he didn’t make mention of the issue further. “Finally got your assistant?” His smile returned only when he looked back at Ratchet.

Ratchet smiled back, a small chuckle passing out of his mouth. “I guess I did.”

A moment or two of pleasant silence passed, both just content at their contact and close presence. Unfortunately, the situation came to realization by the likes of Barricade.

“So, are we gonna see the two of you frag? Not that I’m not up for it, but I at least expect you to be against that.” He pointed toward Ratchet who could only turn and toss his hammer at the ‘bot. He had a good aim, got him in the optic. “Ah! I didn’t even deserve that!”

A squeeze from Megatron’s hand pulled Ratchet’s attention away from his embarrassment. Looking at the gladiator, Ratchet noticed his smile gone. His features begged the medic to listen.

“Senator Ratbat offered me a sponsorship today.”

It took a moment for Ratchet to understand just what Megatron had told him, at the very least process it. “He what? Why?”

Megatron rolled his shoulders. “He claims the Games’ popularity. In wanting an opportunity, he offered one for me.”

“And what’d you say?” Ratchet stood quite still, listening as his utmost duty.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Megatron replied.

Ratchet nodded, giving Megatron’s grasp a squeeze of his own. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about taking him up on his offer,” Megatron finally replied, his response heard by the others as well. Their murmurs and stares noted and understood.

“Why?” Ratchet didn’t trust Ratbat, he was a senator, and the Senate . . .

“I don’t trust them either, you know.” Megatron’s thumb running along Ratchet’s plating tapped into his thoughts, and it was then Ratchet understood even Megatron’s standing. “He said there will be traveling, likely. This has all become a platform, you know that well enough. If I go to other cities there will be more faces, more audials. I’ll be able to extend, reach more.”

“So . . .” Ratchet wanted to pull his hand away, but couldn’t find it in himself to do so. “That’s the goal.”

Megatron squeezed the servo to garner attention again. “That is one of them. He promises to pay with celebrity credit.” The gladiator shifted, just as his thoughts were toward the prospect of the offer. “After everything that’s happened I figured it was time we moved, perhaps find a place with a little more room.” Scarlet optics highlighted Ratchet’s face. They were looking at him with expectance and a desire to be heard. “We won’t even have to worry about keeping that clinic of yours open. We won’t have to worry about a damn thing.”

The clinic. Ratchet returned to its state. They did need the shanix. But, still . . .

“Then I’m going to be the one left to worry; over your travels, over where that credit comes from, over what that damn senator says and makes you do.” Ratchet tugged, intent to turn away, but Megatron only stood, keeping hold of both his hands now.

“He won’t make me do anything.” With a pull, Megatron forced the medibot closer, close enough for their chest plating to bump. “If he so much as looks at me wrong I won’t hesitate to drop him.” Softening the pitch in his vocals, Megatron’s voice sounded soothing enough, but Ratchet still couldn’t shake the feeling he felt in his circuits. “I understand what he did to you, how you feel about him and the others, but know I won’t let them do the same. This time, it’ll be they that fund our march; that pay for our fuel, our transportation, our lodging. And by the time they realize what they’ve done we’ll be a million strong. I know it, Ratchet, I know it. The other cities are waiting, waiting to listen and to follow.”

His words may have moved the others in the room, but it only made Ratchet stutter in his spark chamber. It was a wretched feeling, but he tried, oh, he tried to live with it. He pulled a smile for Megatron, nodding softly.

“Then your mind’s made up.” Tugging away, Megatron let him go, enough for Ratchet to collect his tools together again. “If you’re going to lead, then you lead them right.” He turned back to look at the larger mech. “You hear me, Megatron?” Taking up his case, Ratchet straightened himself, pushing away his worries for another day. Instead he nodded toward Glitch and then squared himself off against the mech in front of him. “Starting with leading us to the best place for some high grade. I did promise him after all.”

“Oh! Now, I’m down to follow you there!” Barricade wasn’t the only one enthused about this, and despite the rough crowd, many of the gladiators followed Megatron, Ratchet, and Glitch to enjoy the luxuries of Kaon and the company of one another that evening.

. . .

Given Jazz’s previous statement about the populace and culture of the city, Orion was cautious upon entry. There had been no time to take on any concealers or study the way systems they tread. The ‘bots of Kaon’s sub levels were going to be seeing Iaconians and they would do nothing to hinder their path. Prowl’s presence ensured that.

There were stares, an innumerable amount of them, and there were more than a few threatening fields. The most of these intimidating figures happened to be scattered around the perimeter of the apartment Ratchet took lodging in. These mechs only seemed to trail, tagging the two as they approached the apartment.

“Ignore them,” Orion bid Prowl whose field was giving off warried stress. His own held calm and collected, at least until that door opened to the frame of his dear friend.

“Orion?” Ratchet’s optics were bright, his mouth shifting into the shape of a large smile. He and Orion met in the middle, throwing their arms around each other and clinging. “By the Allspark!” The medibot pulled back, taking Orion in, making sure he was actually standing before him. “What are you doing here?”

Orion motioned to Prowl beside him. The mech had kept his optics on the ‘bots occupying the areas around the flights and bridges, all of them watching the reunion unfold. At Orion’s behest, Prowl had pulled his attention away from their watchers and turned to Ratchet.

“It is an honor to finally meet you, I’m Prowl.” He held out his hand and that was when Orion and he noticed the medic staring at the insignia on his chassis.

“Elite Guard?” Ratchet looked to Orion before turning his gaze back toward the Praxian.

“A friend,” Orion assured.

“Any friend of Ratchet’s is a friend of mine. Elite Guard or not.” The bulky figure of Ratchet’s roommate made its way to the door, and just as Ratchet stepped out of the way to allow the introduction, a black hand was held out in approval.

Prowl looked at the extended servo and then at the mech attached to it. Megatron was becoming a powerful figure on channel and news. Standing in front of him in person was something else entirely.

With a nod, Prowl took the hand and offered a firm shake of his own. “Megatron?”

“So my designation does get around.” Megatron’s smile was cocky, but pleasant, and when he offered his hand toward Orion he nodded. “And you are Orion? Ratchet’s quite fond of you. I’m glad I’ve come to the opportunity to finally meet you.”

After Orion took the hand he straightened himself. “The same. I heard from Jazz that you’ve been keeping Ratchet out of harm’s way. I thank you for that.”

Megatron nodded, a kind expression lighting his optics as he glanced down at the medic. “We’ve both been looking out for one another.”

“You’ve no doubt got more trouble brewing your way after claiming ownership over those writings.” Orion really wished Prowl would keep the way of his words simple, but he supposed that most of the talk in the Elite Guard pertained to this, so there really was nothing he could do.

The friendly light in Megatron’s optics faded and as he looked at the Guard his shoulder struts seemed to level out, his frame stretched tall, a guard of his own in his field. There was no threatening pitch in his tone or frequency, but by his use of words, he wasn’t rolling over either.

“Oh? You wouldn’t happen to know if any trouble is coming out of the Guard itself, would you?”

“Whoa, whoa, are we really going to be doing this right here, right now?” Ratchet held his hands up, tapping at Megatron’s chest plates and then turning toward Orion and Prowl. “I haven’t seen you in so long and the first thing you come here to do is argue politics?”

Orion vented. “I’m sorry, Ratchet. Unfortunately, one of the reasons I came was in concerns for what’s been happening lately.” And it was then, right then that Orion could see the shift in Ratchet’s features. He was worried over it too, that in part worried the officer, hoping that his dear friend wasn’t as deeply involved with the issue as most assumed. “I’m not sure how Kaon views it, but Iacon has been wrapping it all in a bad light.”

“To the point Sentinel Prime’s taken interest,” Prowl spoke up. He gave a look to Megatron who didn’t seem at all moved by the revelation.

“Good, maybe he’ll get the chance to listen to the voice of the people.”

“But it’s mostly your voice,” Prowl bit back. “They follow you because of your popularity and charisma.”

“And is that your opinion or the upper castes’ opinion?” Megatron questioned.

Prowl glared. “I understand why many think that way.”

“But do you understand that my voice isn’t just my own?” Megatron shifted, crossing his arms. “I speak for those who are too weak and afraid to speak up. And if that is a crime then I’m willing to serve my time for it.” He glared at Orion and Prowl. “Is that why you two have come?”

“No, no,” Orion assured. “Far from it. We, more than anyone, can understand the dangers of a status quo system. And I know what would likely happen to any ‘bot who dares try and shake it up.” There was a smile on his lip plates. He looked at Megatron with a steady head, wariness faded. “I honestly don’t believe there’s a better mech to do the job than you, Megatron.”

Ratchet and Megatron took a short glance toward one another before turning surprised optics back on the officer.

“I’ve seen too much injustice pass under the system that I understand it can only be changed by those willing to fight for that change.” Orion nodded. “I’ve been a loyal reader for some time, but haven’t quite committed to a supporter. I told myself I’d have to meet you face-to-face first.”

Megatron’s smile returned. Accepting the frame of a fellow. “And now you have.”

“I have,” Orion bobbed his helm again. “But I’ve yet to determine my standing still. While I agree with your ideals I hope you keep true to them.” He glanced toward the watching figures, threats if need be. “I can’t say that I feel at home here.”

Megatron seemed to understand as he too looked over his mecha lounging at a distance. “They are recent, and unfortunately necessary.” He shifted, his hand falling onto Ratchet’s shoulder, knuckles deliberately brushing along a subtly marked vertebrae cabling. “There have been recent events where we had to change our methods of acceptance.”

Orion noticed the gesture. “By this ‘we’ do you mean Ratchet’s been involved?” He looked at his friend, despite his question he hoped it was Ratchet whom answered.

The medic only shook his helm. “Only in the crossfire,” Ratchet replied. “You know me, Orion. I can’t tank these things.”

“If you don’t support it then why do you stay?” Prowl took a step closer, his optics focused on the medic. “The longer you stay and the more this grows there will be further dangers.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Megatron spoke up, glancing down at Ratchet. “Or him. We’re perfectly capable of defending our own.”

“But he isn’t your own,” Prowl stressed, and right there Orion couldn’t agree more.

“Ratchet.” The white mech looked at his old colleague. His expressions showed affection and longing, as did Orion’s. “I know Jazz told you, and I know how you feel about it, but I want to tell you again: we’re still working on it. I’ve got some leads, and by Primus I’ll clear your name and you can return to Iacon. Don’t you want to go home?”

A moment passed in silence and then another before Ratchet shifted. He looked away from his friend, letting his processor run for some time. “Home sounds nice. But . . . Iacon hasn’t been home in some time. I’m starting to forget what it felt like.” He then looked at Orion and the truck mech could see the defeat in his optics. “This place isn’t so bad, once you get used to it and all, and . . .” He juts his chin, even to the frames positioned around the place. “I’ve made friends, not the best or ideal, but they’re friends.” His smile is genuine and for a moment Orion saw his old friend again in the way he looked at him. “And I have it, Orion, I actually have it; that clinic, the one I used to tell you about, where I can help whoever comes in, no matter who they are.” He glanced at the mech beside him, Orion didn’t ignore the affection he saw in the light of Ratchet’s optical paneling. “And it’s thanks to the ones I’ve come to know here. So, maybe . . . I’m meant to stay.”

“That’s . . .” Did Ratchet really not want to come back to Iacon, to his friends? “Great, Ratchet.”

“I’d show you, if you want.”

Orion shook his helm. “Some other time, but I’d be honored to a tour.” He glanced toward Prowl. “We have to get going.”

Ratchet took a step forward. “You won’t stay for longer?”

“We can’t,” Orion informed. He reached out and took Ratchet’s hands in his own, squeezing them. “It’s been so good to see you and know that you’re safe.” He then looked back toward Megatron. “Be careful. They might just be words today, but if you let them become anything more you know they won’t hesitate to make you shut up.”

Megatron nodded. “I already understand that.”

“Be sure that you do,” Orion said, looking back at Ratchet. “Because this mech’s very dear to me. I’m doing everything I can for his good, and I’d hope you do your part too.”

“You needn’t worry about that.” Megatron and Orion’s tones weren’t as threatening as their words. There was an understanding as well as respect in their pitches and the way they viewed the other. Even as Orion inclined himself, and Megatron did the same, they both parted with upheld honor and an admirable memory of the other.

There was a silent promise to return, but even still Orion abhorred having to leave Ratchet. His spark chamber felt heavy the entire drive back to Iacon and Prowl gave him the silence he needed to deal with the hurt. Before they departed to their respective homes, Prowl did come up alongside him and lay a comforting hand on him.

“If he’s forgotten what it’s like then we’ll just make him remember.” At least Prowl offered a smile. Orion attempted to return one all the same, but it came out too quick and lasted too short.

“I know,” Orion said. “I just hope it’s before we’re replaced.”

Prowl snorted. “Replaced? Orion, even I could see how fond Ratchet was of you, and here I’ve only known him as the Sparkling Killer. Don’t lose face, we’ll make him believe again.”

“Thank you, Prowl.” Orion watched his companion part with a nod and farewell. When he took himself back to his own abode he intended to dig into his logs and files to rummage through the notes he’s compiled of the investigation. However, there was someone stopping him from entering into his apartment complex.

“Are you Officer Orion Pax?” The mech was small, blue in hue. His optics, green, were scanning the surroundings, as if he was afraid he was being watched or stalked.

“I am.” Orion Pax came closer, recollecting this mech’s face. He believed his designation was Turbo and was on staff at Senator Proteus’ home. What was he doing there? “We’ve talked before.”

“Yes,” he said in a haste, approaching the larger mech and then lowering his frequency. “But I didn’t tell you much because I didn’t want to, because . . . because . . .” It was then Orion noticed the slight tremors in his frame. This ‘bot was scared. Even the light in his optics was off a few watts. “I can’t keep it, Officer Pax, I need you to know.” Orion’s attention zoned. What was he trying to say? “The medic, it wasn’t his fault. I-It wasn’t. He tried to save her, dear beautiful Greenlight, he tried to save her and her litter. He couldn’t because, because _he_ didn’t want him to. He did this because of the medic. He crossed him and because of that _he_ hurt sweet Greenlight. It was unforgivable, I knew it, we all knew it, but we couldn’t say anything as they took the medic away, as they sentenced him . . .” He bowed his helm, shaking.

“Easy.” Orion placed his hands on the mech’s shoulder plates. His spark hammered inside its chamber and his processor spun, systems at full capacity to take in everything that was happening, that he was being told. “You’re not under him right now, you can tell me.”

“But I can’t,” he said, looking up at Orion with painful optics and grit denta. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but I can’t . . . I can’t keep it inside me anymore. It wasn’t right, not what he did to her, and what he did to that medic. It’s not right, and I’m supposed to be quiet, like the rest. I can’t. Not anymore. I just can’t.”

“Turbo.” Orion really had to online himself to what was happening right then. Was this a confession? Was this an actual witness and an actual testimony? “Turbo can you tell me everything again, just one more time?” The mech did through pitched vocals, clearly still in turmoil over the truth he’d been forced to keep inside. “Now, you don’t have to do this now, but I need to know that, in time, when I have everything I need, would you . . . will you be willing to testify with that statement?”

Turbo looked at Orion. Despite his troubled frame and worried optical lighting, he gave two sure nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Soundwave in here is more so based after his Prime design because he was freakin' awesome.  
> And, again, sorry for the longer chapters. I try to make them shorter but they just end up like this, ahah. :P


	8. In Too Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!  
> Here's a long chapter to make up for it!

The last whistle blew, signaling the few kliks the light-tram had before departure was initiated. And yet there Megatron stood with a conundrum to hastily repair in the form of a despairing medibot.

“Don’t be like that, you knew it would come to this.”

Ratchet only stood there, arms crossed and a frown dampening his facial features. “I did, but I still never agreed to it.”

Megatron sighed, feeling his shoulder struts slouch ever so slightly. Just how many times were they going to have this argument? “This is an opportunity I just can’t miss.” He rose his hands, glad that Ratchet was conforming enough to let him touch him. “And it’s not like I’m leaving for good. My home will always be here, with you.”

Despite the affection and the gentle touch, Ratchet shrugged away. His frown only deepened. “Then why isn’t it reason enough to stay?”

Megatron could feel it in the medibot’s field. He knew Ratchet was having a hard time letting him go. But, he wanted him to know that he felt the same.

Reaching out his own field, he brushed against the medic’s. “It’s the reason I have to leave. There needs to be change, but there won’t be if there aren’t those willing to make it.”

“You’re not just going out to lead change, you’re going out to-to fight against ‘bots you’ve never had time to study or assess, you’re going out to sit with tycoons and entrepanuers in their high towers surrounded by the elite and decrepit, you’re going out to work for a ‘bot I’ll never be able to trust, and you’re going out from this city’s protection, out and away from those who can defend you and heal you should you . . .” Ratchet shook his helm, even as Megatron’s hands rose and rubbed against his arms. Even when Megatron pulled him into his arms, the smaller mech continued to push away the turmoil he was feeling right then.

“I won’t forget you,” Megatron assured, his lips moving against his lover’s helm. “You’ll always be on my mind, my reason to do what I do.” He pulled away only to lean in, to give Ratchet the light of his optics. “I know you don’t like it, but the mechs will be watching over you in my absence, at a distance you’re comfortable with. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself while I’m away.”

He heard Ratchet chortle, and watched him shake his helm. He was even able to witness a small smile form on those lip plates as the white ‘bot looked up at him, his own red hand laying on his. “As long as you promise me the same.”

Megatron nodded before he leaned in and gave Ratchet the final departing kiss he’d been reluctant to give since the morning arrived. Letting go of him and pulling away his field had been harder than he thought, and he knew that the other felt those pulling effects just the same. There was no face full of bright hope that he left behind, simply one etched in longing and despair, and because of that Megatron knew he had to find success in this journey, for all the ones he left behind.

Senator Ratbat had sent an entourage, one large enough to provide an impressable escort and protection for Megatron’s travel. His messenger, Soundwave, had been quiet at the station, observing the gladiator and those he bid farewell to. Not that the ‘bot had ever uttered a word to him before, but during those farewell exchanges, Megatron couldn’t help but feel the deeper stares from unseen optics, ones that hadn’t moved from him even as he took his seat and waited out the commute.

Luxuries were provided in high grade, an assortment of funds used for procuring battle-ready weaponry that even the Elite Guard would find interest in, and of course upgrades that many in Megatron’s occupation would only find themselves fortunate enough to get once in their life. And, of course, a personal medibot whom Megatron was introduced to as Railtrack. However, one look and Megatron shrugged away from the pleasantries, especially the offered personnel.

“I don’t require their services,” Megatron stated to the silent messenger. “Not when my own already did a fine job.” Moving his arm, Megatron once more mulled over the ramped strength Ratchet had ensured his ligaments could maintain in his last repair. In time he’d have to submit to the whims of the senator’s medical ward, but right then, Megatron wanted to remember his own medic’s skilled hands on him for as long as possible.

Soundwave nodded, conceding. With a wave of his hand, a majority of the staff left Megatron in peace, but Soundwave was one of the few who stayed. He sat in the seat opposite of Megatron’s, and that concealing visor of his only reflected the gladiator’s image in silent observance.

For those squeamish, there might have been unease, but Megatron’s hailed from the pits of Kaon; there wasn’t much that could churn him into discomfort these days. He only stared back, taking the time to assess his companion and wonder over the words he told no one.

Then, about midway to Iacon, Megatron watched that blank visor flicker and images began rolling across it. The first clear substance had been footage, footage of a trial where a young medibot was reduced to tremors and sobs as a sentence reigned down upon him for the tragic malevolence he was accused of. There was a good six minutes of assorted clips before the images shifted into aerial capture of the moment the entire city came together to push said murderer out of its bounds.

Sitting further upright, Megatron pulled his attention closer. He’d never seen these video files. Never felt the need to. But seeing them now, edited as they were from the ‘bot seated before him, it was more than an overpowering sensation.

When the visor went blank, Megatron assumed that to be the end, but then a few slides rolled across Soundwave’s visor of stills, stills of Megatron holding onto a cloaked ‘bot, the last being that of his departing kiss. With the connection made and suggested, Megatron leaned back, pulling his lip plates into a tight line. Now he understood what Soundwave had been looking at, and thinking.

“You don’t know who he is.” Megatron’s optics turned toward the window. He was content to drop the subject because he knew most that fell into it wouldn’t sway from the media’s outlook of it all. Yet his optics drifted back over toward his silent companion whose visor was blank again. “But I know who you are.” He nodded toward him. “An outlier. I was unaware the Senate cared for them, much less to have them in their employment.”

That was when Megatron noticed the shift in the other. It was hidden well, but even he could see the discomfort for the occupation. Megatron nodded, understanding.

“Your abilities profit him.” Megatron sighed, crossing his arms. “Then I believe we are in the same cockpit. However, I do not plan on crashing this spiraling ship we’ve been locked into.” Megatron gave a smile to the silent occupant, one offering trust and a deeper companionship. Nothing was taken right then, but Megatron believed he was being listened to closer.

Leaning further into his seat, Megatron let his optics wander back toward the passing landscape outside. “Given what you know about that medic, I wonder how much more you know about me.” He took one short glance back in challenge before pulling his gaze once more to the world outside of the transportation. “I have no reason to hide who I am any longer. And I will not do so even under Senator Ratbat’s demands. I go to fulfill employment, I will not favor him further than the expected duties. My actions outside those perimeters I make on my own volition.” He looked back toward Soundwave again, not at all breaking their contact. “I go to find others willing to seek out change in this displaced world. Whether I am met with disappointment or success, I will never stop looking, because I believe there are more than assumed, many too afraid to speak out in support.” And Megatron believed he was looking at one. Of course he was given no confirmation or denial from the silent party, but in the remaining travel, Megatron felt he sat with a compatriot, one who would soon enough find a place to stand.

. . .

“So, are any of you free this weekend?” Jazz stared at the group expectantly, but they only stared back at him stoically.

“Should we be?” Prowl questioned.

Jazz only shifted, shrugging in a nonchalant manner. “Oh, it’s just I thought there might be some interest in . . .” He then pulled out a holocompactor and revealed five procured seating tickets. “Tickets to the grand opening of Iacon’s coliseum!”

Jazz seemed to be the only enthused one.

Pharma’s sigh sounded the loudest. “While I know how much you enjoy those sort of games, I, on the other hand, don’t. Besides, I have thermal nucleus scan testings scheduled with Chief Remedy.”

“I’m afraid I’m booked too, Jazz,” Thunderclash replied. “I’ve taken off more leave than I should have, and the employer finally caught on to my routine.”

“And I’ll be going with Orion to conduct a witness report,” Prowl answered.

Despite the rejections, Jazz didn’t seem at all discouraged. Instead, his smile only grew and with some adjustments, he magnified the ticket details for his companions. “Are you sure?” He asked with a sing in his pitch. “They’ll be having honorary guests I don’t think any of us want to sit out on.”

When a certain Kaonian gladiator’s designation read across the announcing contenders the effect was immediate.

“Megatron?” Orion was the first to press closer and read the ticket in full.

“He’s going to be here?” Pharma leaned forward, looking more so at Jazz for confirmation than the announcement slips. “In Iacon?”

“I don’t know too many Megatrons, much less the gladiator kind from Kaon.” Jazz motioned to the tickets again. “You won’t believe how hard it was to catch these babies. Sold out within kliks, and my guess is that the audience isn’t just Gladiatorial Game fans.”

Orion nodded, looking toward his friend. “Do you think there will be possible unrest?”

“From the crowds?” Jazz shook his helm. “But I expect the more elite won’t be too fond of Megatron’s off-hand popularity should he garner more than sports-enthused viewership.”

“Coming to Iacon to start trouble?” Thunderclash had his arms crossed, skeptical. “That isn’t what this city needs.”

“We can’t jump to conclusions,” Orion said, calming rampant thoughts down. He looked back at the tickets. “It says here he’s under the sponsorship of Senator Ratbat.” He mulled over what he was reading. “I wonder what pushed him to do that.”

“Well, there’s a chance we can ask him ourselves,” Jazz reasoned. “That is, if any of you can find time in your busy schedules.”

There was only a moment of pause before the group conceded, allowing this matter to take precedence. Besides, they hadn’t been to a Gladiatorial Game before, and regardless of a few reservations, they were still more than curious to view one.

The coliseum was crowded, horrendously so. The streetways and ramps that led to the district the stadium was located in were congested to the point many ‘bots simply transformed and walked the rest of the way. Venders were surrounded by scores of long lines, the hallways were clogged with chatting and stalled frames, and the seating rows were in such a mess of occupants that it became a fight just to wrangle one’s own seat from unscrupulous squatters.

But the sheer energy and excitement from the upcoming matches was felt even in the structure of the building. And with more than enough anticipation, Orion and the others watched the show before them.

“My Primus, any more thunderous applause and I should think the whole stadium will come toppling down.” Thunderclash had his hand atop the back of a seat in front of him, simply feeling the vibrations exuded from the crowds in, and around, the building.

"Either the Games have grown substantially in popularity last I checked, or Megatron is one damn good gladiator." Pharma sat with his arms crossed and face scrunched, clear disdain for the sport, but his optics ever searched for the mech they had all come to see.

"Or these 'bots are here for entirely other reasons than to see Megatron fight." Prowl's comment resided in many of their processors. It's what made them wary at most, but curious at least. After all, none had physically seen the Tarn native do battle.

There had been four minor battles before the seasoned warriors were called. One was a fellow Iaconian. But, despite the home field advantage and support, the majority of the crowds threw their arms up and vocals out the moment Megatron was announced.

"You guys are in for a real treat," Jazz commented, jutting his chin strapping at the large silver mech entering the field. "He's an absolute master out there."

Every set of optics focused on the Kaon representative, and verifying Jazz's enthusiastic statement, Megatron went on to take down the Iaconian in less than a few nano-kliks. Of course with such an easy victory it would prove a waste after acquiring the tickets so easily, and so three other warriors were sent out.

One 'bot was bigger than Megatron's frame, one was smaller, and the other equaled in height and near mass. The smaller one sought to use speed against him, but just as his turns attempted to disorientate the silver mech, Megatron had shifted and moved out of the way from the gladiator's strike just in time, and that slip caused the smaller mech to slide into a fellow warrior.

As soon as two of them were incapacitated, Megatron focused on the larger one, of which his skill with the mace impressed the crowds into a frenzy just in time to roar over the last downed mech. With a sharp grin and a knack for ignoring the minor injuries scattered across his form, Megatron rose his arms and paid his own tribute to his loyal fans.

"They love him," Thunderclash muttered. Their group seemed to be one of the very few still seated.

"You should see the masses in Kaon," Jazz explained. Leaning back he shook his helm. "Crazy how a mech like that can get such a following."

"From his standpoint, it doesn't seem like it's particularly hard for him." Pharma’s optics turned, grazing over the shifting crowd. "He's using his fame to multiply his followers."

"The Guard seems to think the same," Prowl replied, keeping his own gaze on the gladiator who was currently standing for shots, posed with sponsor-related products.

"But we don't really know," Orion finally spoke up. If he had to be the voice of reason and unification then he would be, even if the others didn't want to hear it right then. "What better way to answer a question than to go to the source?"

Just as he stood, curious optics followed him.

"Where are you going?" Thunderclash twisted in his seat, watching the young officer make his way out of the row.

"To Megatron," Orion answered, turning to give his company a beckoning look. "I've got questions of my own, and with him being in town, I see no better opportunity."

"Wait." Jazz was the first out of his seat, hopping along beside Orion. "Security's been pretty tight, and he seems busy with the advertisement."

Orion shook his helm even as the others tagged along his trail. "I really don't think he'd come all this way to let those interfere with his real mission. He wants to talk to the city, to Iaconians, so let's let him."

With Orion's lead, and Prowl's revered clearance, they were able to make their way into the bunkers where flocks of media 'bots and cameras zoomed about, interviewing contestants and snapping stills of victorious and losing gladiators alike. The largest mass naturally moved around Megatron's frame, and it was his larger structure that helped Orion locate him.

"I have answered more than my share of questions today," Megatron's voice spoke. He was batting the media populace away. "Any others will be considered tomorrow."

"How about ours?" Orion was certain his vocals were pitched just right to ride over the barrage of throwing questions. He could see Megatron turn scarlet optics upon him, and it did his field good to know the mech smiled approvingly at him and his companions.

Moving out of the circle, Megatron stood before them. Familiar lights looked toward Jazz, Prowl, and Orion, but then he looked to Pharma and Thunderclash.

"You two must be Thunderclash and Pharma then." He held out his hand politely. "I've finally been honored to meet the rest of Ratchet's old entourage."

Thunderclash and Pharma took turns to shake before the prior snorted. "Old? We _still_ are his entourage if I have anything to say about it."

Megatron took the comment in stride, turning then toward Orion. "I take it you all managed to watch my performance."

Orion nodded. "We didn't expect to see you in Iacon." At least not so soon.

"Ah, you'll have to thank Senator Ratbat for that. It was his employment that garnered me the opportunity to visit this city, and I must say that I can completely understand why Ratchet misses it so much."

"I was unaware you would fall into such employment." Orion wanted to believe he knew Megatron, well, at least enough to assume his distaste for the higher governmental powers.

"And you are not the only one." Megatron sounded a sigh, shifting his form only slightly in thought for the words the return. "I don't agree with his tactics, nor his morals, but for now I will submit to these duties until I am established enough to cut ties."

"Established in the ring or as a figurehead?" Orion questioned.

Megatron's smile widened. His field reached out in time as his hand had, patting the officer on the shoulder strut in the friendliest of manners. "I like you, Orion, and the rest of you." He nodded toward the others. "My reservations about Iaconians have been misplaced to this point. Perhaps we could come together again another time and talk further. And I would most certain love a tour of this city by trusted individuals."

"We'd be honored." Orion placed his hand over his chassis and inclined his helm politely. He understood the schedule of a celebrity, but that didn't stop him or the others from following the whispers of the city closer now that the anti-functionist leader was visiting.

. . .

"Over there, no, no, that way. Yes! Right there!" Ratchet had to pull himself away from the patient with a calibrator misalignment to help Glitch situate the monitor in the repair room. He had one installed in the waiting room for the souls that had to stand and pace, but now this monitor was for the 'bots during repair, as well as for himself.

"That's the only spot that'll work." Ratchet then began tuning in the monitor, hoping to pick up the frequency he sought for. After a short search he channeled in to Iacon Sports Broadcast. "There it is!" With a clap of his hands he moved away, observing the screen before the medibot programing in the back of his CPU began nagging him further to return to his unfinished work.

 _'And all the way from Kaon we are proud to introduce its infamous champion Megatron!_ ' The sounds of the crowds almost hitched the tube's speakers into static. What a day that must be.

"Doctor? Doctor Ratchet?"

"Hm?" Turning his optics away from the viewing had been difficult, but once he placed his gaze back onto his expectant patients he presumably snapped out of his processor. "Oh, right, right."

Moving back to his work Ratchet dove in, at the same time listening to the announcers relay what was being seen. Every so often he managed to glance back at the screen, one time enough to see Megatron topple two opponents over in one maneuver.

"Yes! Keep them on the ground!" Ratchet's enthusiasm echoed off the walls and curious optics stared at him longer than he thought polite. With a clearing of his vocal module, he bowed his helm to give better attention to his tasks.

It wasn’t quite easy to multitask, however Ratchet was usually very professional in that division, however, lately he’s found himself lacking. Putting his attention solely on his seen patients whilst having his spark pull him to the progress of Megatron’s matches caused inner and outer turmoil. He was constantly having to relook diagnostics as well as double check his patches. It really wasn’t fair for the ‘bots lain out on the tables before him, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from caring for Megatron’s wellbeing.

In the beginning he told himself he wouldn’t watch. Ratchet had even given into Megatron’s request for an entire day off before his tour. Ratchet didn’t want to close down the clinic just to offer a longer version of good-bye to the gladiator, but he did so anyway, and he certainly didn’t regret the time they spent entwined with one another.

Now he watched, because Ratchet couldn’t help himself.

Ratchet couldn’t help but watch the way Megatron moved into every strike, and maneuvered out of every hold. He couldn’t help but assess the taken damage and then scan over the repairs that some half-afted ‘bot worked over him. He mostly certainly couldn’t help the way he physically flinched whenever he witnessed hits taken and damage enacted. It hurt in ways Ratchet was frustrated he couldn’t explain, and he hated himself all the more for watching.

Megatron’s tours were closely monitored and trending, soon enough there was more than one broadcasting station keeping tabs on the rising gladiatorial star. And Ratchet was constantly tuned in, listening to every commentator he could find, wondering just what they thought of the silver mech. The different takes and opinions were interesting, though bordering offense on some parts, but Ratchet let those comments slide, after all, it wasn’t like he could personally go up to those ‘bots and threaten them with his scalpels. He would, if he could, but he was a little too busy at the moment.

‘ _Well, it seems he’s found a fan base in Tarn. Commonly known for his prowess in the Gladiatorial Games, Megatron is also an avid supporter of the growing anti-factionist movement_.’

‘ _Not just a supporter, Gildfire, but the de facto leader. His memoirs have been a staple in the lower castes and they’ve been coming out of the mills to show support for this mech both in and out of the stadiums. And even with his busy schedule, he doesn’t seem to be leaving this aspiration of his. What do you think of it all, Gildfire?_ ’

‘ _I think the movement deserves some recognition. I mean, after the welcoming Megatron received when coming to Tarn, I can’t say it’s not there_.’

“You hear the things they say?” Ratchet hadn’t meant to talk with his mouth full, and took a moment to swallow the protein contents before pointing to the monitor with his late-night companion. “They’re always on the outside looking in. People ask for their opinion as if they know anything of the matter. Why not just ask Megatron? I know for a fact he’s more than willing to answer any kind of question.”

Looking toward Glitch, the young mech tilted his helm, gazing up at the monitor with Ratchet as the two sat after closing, enjoying a meal in solace after the hectic day. Ratchet knew he was interested and a deep listener despite his reluctance to speak. But even in the silence Ratchet’s already taken the time to understand him.

As optics once more turned to the monitor, footage of mobs of fans, media ‘bots, and various other ‘bots crowded Megatron, reaching out to touch him in excitement, anger, and curiosity. His image was rising, previously untouched territories of the planet were being exposed to him and his ideals. Ratchet couldn’t help but wonder what they thought and not just the newscasters.

There were agitators of course. Ratchet was reluctant to call them enemies, but they traversed along those lines. But these certain individuals were adamant that they were heard and that their opinion mattered in the light of the public. Famous faces, powerful individuals that knew a threat when they encountered one, and some of the things they said against Megatron made Ratchet sick, and so when these faces came on screen to rant he simply turned them off. Like he did right then.

After a moment Ratchet shifted, looking at Glitch. “Tarn is it? I’ve been there a few times. Different from Iacon, but not bad. You think he’s doing well there? They seem to like him.” Ratchet then noticed Glitch tapping his chassis. It took him a moment before he sat up straighter. “Wait, are you from Tarn?” Glitch nodded. Ratchet smiled. “Yeah? What part?” Glitch didn’t elaborate, of course he didn’t. “Then if they’re anything like you, I’m sure Megatron will have a friend of the city faster than we can process.” With a slight shake of his helm, Ratchet kept his smile soft for the hope of things. When he stood he cleaned up the protein containers and then nodded to Glitch. “Come on, let’s get the clinic ready for tomorrow.”

Glitch hadn’t followed Ratchet into the repair room, instead he remained out in the waiting area, glaring at the dark monitor. It took the medic until after he’d sorted his tools away into their proper cabinets that he realized he was the only one fixing up the room. Turning he took notice of his assistance’s swayed attention.

“Is there something wrong?” Glitch looked at him and then motioned to the monitor. He tapped his chassis again. Ratchet tilted his helm. “What is it? Tarn?” Glitch shook his helm and tapped his chassis once more before he then rubbed at the plates. When he pointed toward Ratchet, the white mech understood. “Oh . . .” _Oh_. “Yes, of course I miss him.” When Glitch’s hand remained, Ratchet turned away. He didn’t need to be reminded. “We really need to tidy up or else it’ll be a hassle for the both of us tomorrow.”

Ratchet was scrubbing at the tables, wiping away oils and lubrications; that was when Glitch finally joined him. He’d gotten better at controlling his ability. Ratchet really hadn’t had to replace much equipment since taking him in, but the rustic mech certainly had found other ways to disorient him.

Glancing over, Ratchet looked into that optic. Emotionless as it was, Ratchet wasn’t dissuaded to what swirled inside that blue lens. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine, really.” As if to prove a point, Glitch had reached into a cabinet and pulled out beakers, ones that should have been stored on the shelf instead. Ratchet scoffed. “I just wanted to change where I stored them.” But Glitch didn’t put them back, just like he was taught.

Sounding a sigh, Ratchet shook his helm, rubbing at his neck cabling. He was exhausted. The days never got easier, even with an assistant. All he wanted was a suitable amount of recharge, just a few cycles.

“You’re right, it’s late. I’ll worry about that come tomorrow.” He nodded toward his office. “I’ll be in there if you need me. But I trust you to finish up for me.”

The sound of Glitch’s taps turned him before he retired for the evening. There the mech was, tapping his claw against the surface of the front door. Ratchet sounded another sigh at the sight.

“No, I’m perfectly comfortable here.” It was where Ratchet’s been keeping himself for deca-cycles. Glitch’s continual tapping frustrated him. “Look, I said I’m fine here. It’s better than going back to an empty apartment.” Yes . . . that was the reason, wasn’t it? Catching himself, Ratchet looked toward Glitch apologetically. “Sorry, it’s late.” And he was _exhausted_ ; from the constant work and the constant worry, as well as the constant loneliness.

Has it really been _that_ long since Megatron had left?

“Finish up and then get some recharge. I’ve got six neural repairs tomorrow meaning I’m going to be busy most of the day, and in light of that you’ll have to be the one taking information and scheduling recovery checkups, as well as mixing formulas. I trust you’re more than capable of doing that, of course so long as you get your rest.” He nodded to the clinic and then the time. “Goodnight.”

Retiring to his office, Ratchet took a seat at his desk and pushed his helm into his hands. It was there he sat for cycles before he realized that the darkness and the quiet were not good companions to recharge to. Not for him, not anymore.

With an audible groan, Ratchet moved, turning in his chair toward some cabinets. He pulled out a project he’d been working on. With as much time as he oft had when sitting in his office in the latter cycles of the evening, one would assume he wouldn’t spend too long on it. Though it was embarrassing to say he’s been having trouble concentrating on it since Megatron left.

It was whilst he worked he let his processor wander. It went to places like Iacon and then Tarn, asking for their thoughts and their likes and dislikes of Megatron. He wondered further about the strong mech and how his revolutionary ideals went. He wondered if he met those of similar processor and spark as he had assumed he would, further still Ratchet wondered about their influence on Megatron.

Deeper still, Ratchet wondered how Megatron recharged, fretting if he was getting enough cycles and proper care to safely fall into it when he needed to. There was some sort of cynical part of him where Ratchet hoped Megatron was having just as much trouble resting as he was, though Ratchet understood he needed the energy for his travel and matches, still . . . he hoped the bastard was suffering just as much.

But . . . what if he wasn’t?

What if Megatron was falling into recharge through top notch high grade or the pleasant touches of beautiful and desirable ‘bots graced by his mounting sponsors. Why not? Megatron was in more than a desirable position. Ratchet’s seen the flocks, he’s known about their desires for some time. Honestly, it was only a matter of time. And what better time to indulge than when Megatron was out in new territory with new sites, new experiences, new pleasures?

“Nrrh, Primus dammit.” Ratchet found his focus waning and the project before him lay unfinished once more. “I shouldn’t be worrying over this.” He shouldn’t because if Megatron wanted to go off and gallivant in all the pleasures Cybertron had to offer then he most certainly could. He’s worked for it, so why not? “Why not? Well, because . . . because . . .” Another groan and Ratchet pushed the project away, leaning onto his desk, his face against his arm plating. “Do you really miss me as much as I do? Just . . . come home to me, it’s all I want. You’ve been gone long enough. Quite long enough.”

Ratchet knew all the complaining and pouting in the world wouldn’t bring Megatron back to his doorstep faster. Though, a small part of him in the back of his processor began to believe Megatron stalled purposely. That small part began steadily growing with each day and on some nights, like tonight, it became so loud that he couldn’t recharge—not when there wasn’t a large frame pressed against him and the strongest arms in all of Cybertron wrapped around him.

Primus, when did Ratchet become so dependent?

When did Ratchet become so love-struck?

Is that was it was? Eh, no, Ratchet couldn’t call it that. It just wasn’t like him. The least he could do was think of better wording. Perhaps one day.

There was a smile on Ratchet’s face, even as he fell into eventual recharge to the thoughts of a warm embrace. One he’d been yearning for for far too long.

. . .

After the Senator's sponsorship, Megatron had picked up others. Despite that Senator Ratbat remained the highest benefactor, therefore, he dictated the majority of Megatron's paid time. If he wanted the gladiator to do a photoshoot with Games Editorial then he would, if he wanted Megatron to meet with select spokebots then he would, even if he wanted Megatron present at inconsequential elite parties then the Kaon representative would be there.

That day was no different. Naturally Megatron was perfectly polished and shined to stand before the crowd with his employer gloating his product. Megatron can't say he's ever been around that many elite in his existence, and being there now in the nest of them, he could understand why so many advised against it.

They were a crude bunch, a hierarchy existing even amongst themselves. Circles of chatter were small and privileged, and all the smiles and pleasantry were obviously fake. Megatron had no qualms expressing his distaste for the gathering via honest facial expressions.

"Say, what's with the frown?" Ratbat approached, leaning against Megatron with a pat of his hand. He was a little fizzed on high grade, but Megatron knew him well enough by now to know he was a mech who'd never let himself grow too inebriated.

With a roll of his shoulder struts, Megatron said, "I'd rather be out in the arena for a solid cyber-week than be here."

Ratbat snorted, giving him another tap. "Of course you would. But, come on, Megatron, gross is up, the products are selling, and their distributers are happy, which of course makes me happy. It's all because of you, of course, so take a load off and live a little." He smiled at a wave of passing 'bots. "Look at all those optics on you." He then shifted, jutting his jaw strapping. "You're a talker, right? Go mingle. You'll be surprised about how many fans you actually have here."

There was higher doubt in Ratbat's optimistic outlook, but Megatron didn't see the harm in trying, after all, he was touring to be heard. Perhaps even the elite would give audio receiver.

"Ah! There he is!"

Megatron watched Ratbat hold out his arms and move forward to meet the entourage pressing closer. There was no mistaking Sentinel Prime and his squadron of Guards.

"I am very honored you chose to take up my invitation to come." Ratbat waved to his servants to bring his best stock for the Prime and his 'bots. "You know even the likes of Proteus and Decimus declined attending. It does me good to know I'll have a guest worthy of gloating over their absence."

"I came because I knew he would be here." Sentinel looked toward Megatron, wariness shading his lighting. He was squaring himself, a show Megatron was easily enough familiar with. He didn't falter and stood tall on his own.

"My main attraction, yes." It didn't take long before Ratbat understood Sentinel's reason for coming. With a nod he inclined himself, moving away to return schmoozing. "If you need anything more then give one of my servants a call."

As soon as the Senator had been absorbed in the crowd again the Prime stepped closer. They were nearly the same height and were able to study the other with leveled optics.

"After departing Iacon, I didn't think I would get the chance to meet you," Megatron stated. They were in Tarn, not too much of a distance from Cybertron's golden city, but still not a heavy seat for even the Prime.

"Just like Senator Ratbat has estates outside, so do I." Sentinel nodded. "I happened to be in the city when he decided to throw this extravagant party, and decided I might as well pay a visit."

"Because I would be here," Megatron repeated the issue, making sure Sentinel Prime knew he wouldn't be able to mosey around with his words with him. He was a very good listener.

There was a twitch of a smile on Sentinel's lip plates before he shifted. "You know, lately I've been wondering if your occupation is that of a gamebot, or a revolutionist."

"I think the options speak for themselves," Megatron said, tilting his helm with a smile. "I can't be labeled a revolutionist without a revolution, and honesty—though rare as it is these days—aims to the fact that there isn't one."

To another 'bot, Sentinel Prime's descending frown might be seen as a threat, but not to Megatron.

"Is this how you talk to them? With a silver glossa that hides your true intentions?" Sentinel shifted, once more squaring himself off. "I know the people and I know how easily they can be herded under the light of popular topic. It doesn't take much to rile them and bend them to will. Be it that you understand this, know that just as easily as they fell victim to your apathetic words, so too can they fall away into another's. You're good at the Games, Megatron, but you aren't programed to lead. Even Kaon will grow weary of you and throw you away once something new comes along. I tell you this now because I want to prepare you."

Sentinel shifted, moving to walk away. He stopped just a few paces, his Guard surrounding him as if he was the Allspark itself. "Relish your fame while you can, and perhaps save some credit for retirement. Nothing ever lasts, you know."

The Prime didn't leave, instead he and his mechs moved throw the crowds, taking in refreshments and entertainment. Megatron remained to himself, processing what was said to him, about him, and about those that followed his ideals. Ever since he left Kaon he's been running into these proverbial walls, meant to stop him in his tracks with esteemed reigning down judgmental opinion on him and his work. Naturally there was some sort of discouragement to hear these things, but seeing the ones listening, backing him up was all it took to keep pushing. And with a glance over toward Soundwave who looked to have watched and heard the entire conversation, Megatron knew he wasn't alone.

"You know what, this won't do. Would it offline you to actually pick up a cube of high grade and ingest it?" Ratbat was back, waving a cube in the gladiator's face.

"Am I meant to advertise or partake? There is a fine line, you know." On instinct Megatron took the cube, looking at it with deeper processing.

"Nothing wrong with doing both," Ratbat said. "Look, these 'bots not only want to see you in the metal, but they want to see your conversational skills and adapting abilities. They want to get to know Megatron. They can see the gladiator at the arena."

Megatron rose a brow. "It would be wise to take caution of myself around so esteemed of guests." He handed the high grade back. "I am known to be quite careless when fritzed." Not really, but Megatron certainly was savvy enough not to walk into any potential mistakes, especially around these crowds.

"Oh ho, is that right? Now that would be some good tabloid business." Ratbat let out a laugh before pushing the cube back into Megatron's hands. "Have one, for me. You haven't lived until you've tasted Iaconian high grade, trust me. Come on, sit with me for the entertainment."

Megatron obliged only because he was technically on working cycles. Surviving the party wouldn't be too much of a challenge for him, it was managing to make it out of the crowd with his image intact. While the sub levels were known for shady business and activity Megatron's still never seen as much debauchery there as he did at the party. Of course it was to be expected, with their reputations, there wasn't much a simple pleasure 'bot could do to sully the guests.

The entertainment was full of talent, but they were hired mostly for their looks. Groups of slim and sleek mechs and femmes performed dances, acrobatics, and sang to the crowds, moving closer to the ones whose optics they caught. Even the household servants weren't immune to untested hands. Megatron just as much observed his employer reach out and swat one of the performers on the aft as she passed by.

"What can I say? I like the red ones." He chuckled, giving Megatron a shrugging look before another face morphed across his features entirely. "Say, that'll do. How's about I hook you up with some 'bots for the evening? I can only imagine the stress you've kept in after all those matches and that campaigning of yours. Slag, I can get you a pretty thing every night if you want."

Megatron shook his helm. "That is not an offer I'm willing to take."

Ratbat looked surprised. He then proceeded to focus his optics, glaring at the group of young and beautifuls for some time as if he were trying to find fault in them. "Not feeling this group? You want a catalog? Is it femmes or mechs that stirs your loins?"

Megatron curled his digits, trying to maintain himself. He despised how casual the senator went on about these individuals, these fellow Cybertronians.

"I come from the sub levels, Senator. Bots of my position don't come across industries like this." There were districts dedicated to pleasurebots, but most ran their businesses individually out of their own home and set their own rules. Just 'bots trying to make a living. This was something almost forced.

"Ah, not used to it. I understand." Ratbat's smile widened as he leaned back. "Well, you continue to bring in revenue and I promise I'll take care of all your needs, internal, external." His optics glanced downward. "And carnal."

"I appreciate the devotion, but as I stand I will not be needing any pleasure services," Megatron stated, his form taught and ready to defend his decision.

"Really?" Ratbat went back to looking quizzical. "After all I'm offering?" When his facial features shifted again it regained more understanding than confusion. "Aaah, I got it, I got it. You got a conjunx back home."

At the mention, Megatron's processor returned to stored files of a certain medibot. A conjunx? Perhaps a conjunx endura? Yes, maybe one day when Ratchet was ready. Megatron really couldn't imagine a life without the mech there by his side. He, himself, was more than ready to partake in the ritus, but he's had more than enough understanding to know to be patient, and Megatron was.

Thoughts of Ratchet also tended to remind him of how lonely he's been.

"Yes." Megatron nodded, unaware of the smile on his lips plates. He offhandedly glanced toward Soundwave's direction, surprised the mech hadn't informed his master of just whom Megatron's affectionate was.

"Well why didn't you bring them? I could provide accommodations for close friends and family, no problem. In fact, it's proven warrior and sport 'bots function better when their loved ones are close."

"No, I couldn't." And Megatron really couldn't. If only the Senator knew. "He had work just as much as I did."

"You know strained relationships aren't particularly healthy."

"We're not strained." Megatron really wanted to move away from the subject of Ratchet. He didn't want to say anything to toggle Ratbat's memory log. And on top of it all it only made Megatron's spark ache further.

With a sigh, Megatron bid the party end. He was looking forward to speaking at a gathering afterwards. Tolerating it and all its extravagance was wearing the mech down more than the assault of an opponent wielding a carbon-steelix shield.

Luckily, as it wore on the surges from the served high grade and engex slurred the guests away from Megatron and toward each other in similar states. Senator Ratbat had fallen a little too close to said state himself to the point he released Megatron and allowed him a guide to see him to his appointed gathering. That servant just so happened to be Soundwave.

That evening Soundwave remained and stood near as Megatron met fellow Tarn citizens who would be more than willing to rally behind his voice and aspirations. There were faces he knew and remembered, many of which were excited for his return and the stage he'd been given, but of course there were some in disagreement with his approach to which Megatron civilly debated

However, it was the unfamiliar faces that Megatron found surprising him that evening.

"You talk as well as you debate, but I wonder over your leadership." Megatron turned his optics upon a large mech of violet hue. The fact that he had no face or hands was evident enough of his standing in society. And the drawl in his vocals didn't sit well with the gladiator.

"I suppose it would have to depend what I'm leading." Megatron straightened his posture, ready to stand his ground against this new mech.

"From what I observed I would say you have 'bots willing to stand behind you in an upcoming battle, but you seem to be reluctant to take up the position they clearly seek. Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Crossing his arms, Megatron sifted through his words. "I do not stand there because there is no position. We are not at war so why would I lead them into battle? There is more than one way to change a society, and with all of the energon I've spilt I would like to keep away from the prospect of doing any more."

"Yes, but the lingering question remains: when the war comes and the battles begin, will you be there to face them?" Even though the emotions lacked, Megatron could see something inside that yellow optic. Curiosity and perhaps a passion.

"A debate for another time." Megatron could hear the disappointment in the others listening around. He didn’t pretend to be naive to the popular enthusiasm surrounding his avalanching movement. At first Megatron was excited to know the depth of which these supporters would swear, but after having his hard helm rung around with an annoying but firm and reasonable red servo, he came around and saw the folly of this thinking. And he was glad he had. This movement and its populace was more than the waste and disposables of which they were constantly called by the naysayers.

When the crowds understood they would push Megatron’s opinion on that matter no further they began to disperse, however, that one mech remained. He even stepped closer as Soundwave motioned for their departure.

“If you find it troubling to answer it before the mass then perhaps you could spare them and relay it to me directly.”

Megatron was impressed by his persistence if not continually unnerved by his appearance and tone of voice. “So what is it that they did to you to push you to want something as drastic as war.”

“Want?” The mech paused for a moment. “I do not want. I only estimate the ratio of these gatherings and pair them against the crumbling systems of this current regime. I assure you, it will happen.”

Megatron held his frown. “I hope your estimates are wrong, my friend. No one is wanting something so drastic.”

“You speak for the few, and ignore the chant of the many. A flawed trait.”

At odds with the mech, Megatron turned to look at Soundwave and noticed images flickering across his visor. They were of an old Senator, one of the many unfortunate to fail to keep up with their fold. Looking back, Megatron wondered.

“Senator Shockwave?”

“A senator no longer,” the mech replied, a glance down at his claws. “But let it not be said that I do not oversee this city.”

“It is an honor to meet you.” Megatron inclined his helm politely. “After your absence, I wasn’t certain what became of you, not that I minded the personal lives of the Senate. I was more focused on their enacting policies, of which many you disagreed with if I recall.”

“To which I paid for my refusal,” Shockwave replied. “But it matters not, as do the Senate. They have gone on too long unchecked, unyielding to their own laws they set down. It is irrational and illogical that they continue moving our planet on this path.”

“It’s irrational and illogical to pick a fight with them as well,” Megatron replied.

“At the moment, perhaps. As you said before: that is a debate for another time.”

“I will be in Tarn for a deca-cycle, perhaps we could sit and have a closer discussion about your interest in this movement. I have quite the busy schedule, but I can always make time for talks.” He nodded toward Soundwave who remained characteristically silent, just simply observing.

“No need to maneuver scheduling, Soundwave and I know each other quite well.” Shockwave glanced toward the silent mech before turning his round optic back toward Megatron. Its light burned with expectance, of and in him. “Should you ever find yourself given the opportunity, just ask Soundwave, he’ll be able to arrange something between us. I look forward to our talks, Megatron.”

Even though Megatron made himself clear, and even though he had efficiently cleared the teetering crowd, he couldn’t shake the feeling they weren’t listening, or perhaps he wasn’t saying the right things. He was constantly meeting the angry and frustrated, and he was continually having to calm their rampages. Megatron blamed himself mostly and feared he was losing touch with his following. Despite all that he still felt that kinship with them and their frustrations and hurts, and it disturbed him knowing that even the likes of himself was that close to the edge, ready to stand by the mass of ‘bots sick of the way the system roamed and ran over everyone.

Could Megatron be blamed for the way he felt? He was simply a product of this faulty golden-aged system. One among millions. And he had friends and loved ones who were also dealt with by the hard end of that unforgiving social normality. He had a right to be angered and to fall into it. But there was a wiser voice that continued to tell him to keep calm and remain collected and to lead even if he was the only one with his helm screwed on right. And Megatron would follow that advice so long as it kept repeating those words into his receivers to remind him every day he feels like slipping all over again.

. . .

When Glitch first onlined after the operation he stumbled out of a waste dump. He’d been tossed in there as if he were trash, a sparkless frame ready for the compactor. It was hard to move, to even see with what had been given to him and it took more than a few days of stumbling around until he wound up in the sub levels, looked over and ignored.

There was no place that willingly offered shelter, or gave out fuel. Down there was just as harsh as the realities on the surface. Glitch knew he was meant to offline in that recess, hidden away and forgotten by the entire populace. A mistake, a glitch in the system, erased and corrected.

Glitch wanted to offline. He was more than willing to leave the leftover shell he was given and join the Well of Allsparks. But it had been just so damn hard to offline. His fright turned into fight and the days into deca-cycles of struggle. It wasn’t until he happened to catch a glance of a mass of decrepit ‘bots, all in similar shape as himself, lined up as if waiting for something.

Glitch found out that “something” was healing.

When Doctor Ratchet took the time to look at him, to actually touch him and assess the damage that had been done and fine tune the sloppy attachments overlaid upon him, Glitch felt like crying. He wanted to throw his arms around the mech and praise his name to Primus. But he refrained because he was still afraid, afraid of the life he would have to face the way he was. He regretted keeping silent, but at the moment, he felt it had been for the best. There really was no words he could say to the doctor to explain his situation, none that would at all make sense.

After previous failures, Ratchet had given him shelter, and a means for regular fuel. He even trusted him enough to take him as an assistant. Him; even with his condition, Ratchet let him be his medical assistant.

This responsibility entailed recording patient information, scheduling and rescheduling appointments, roll calling, assisting the worst ‘bots on stretchers and on and off examination tables, as well as organizing and mixing formulas and remedies for the outgoing. Ratchet had been patient in his learning especially in regards to his ability. As of right then, Glitch didn’t think he had been under better control.

Glitch couldn’t be happier.

His continual silence wasn’t out of distrust, but worry over his own speech. He feared saying the wrong words to the likes of Ratchet, or even Megatron, and so he kept them to himself until he could sort them out in a proper manner. Besides, Ratchet didn’t seem to mind anymore.

It was especially right then that Glitch chose to remain silent. The absence of Megatron was taking a harsher toll on the good doctor than they both originally assumed it would. From that observation he knew that trying to speak to the medibot would prove fruitless.

There was something tender in seeing it all affect Ratchet the way it was. Glitch had never really seen such a shared deep connection between two ‘bots before. Megatron and his relationship was inspiring and Glitch was finding it difficult to see Ratchet carry on the way he was.

He helped install monitors to, well, monitor Megatron’s tour. But as an official stellar cycle rolled by Glitch could see that even the monitors and updated progress of Megatron’s rising fame in the Games wasn’t enough to keep Ratchet’s moods lifted. And the problem was that Glitch understood he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

Agitation and frustration were getting the better of the doctor. He snapped at his patients more often than not, even as he helped them and they returned for his repairs. His charity never ended, and lately, his swearing. The one thing staggering him recently was the two minicons, the ones he’d saved. They tended to come around more times than Ratchet had wanted, all in the vain attempt of offering protection from the more troublesome ‘bots that come around the clinic—like the other gladiators don’t do a good enough job at that.

“What are you, some upper? The slag you doin’ here?” Glitch could hear Rumble outside. He and Frenzy tended to stand by the door, often times overlooked by the ‘bots seeking entry. Of course once noticed they were a force to be reckoned with, of which many came to realize once they overstepped the pair. And that all meant more patients for Ratchet. “No, it’s already too crowded in there. Stay out.”

“Hhh! Primus damn it. Is that Rumble and Frenzy?” Glitch turned to see Ratchet shift away from the shoulder coupling he was welding in place. With a flick of his helm his lenses shifted to reveal a pair of aggravated blue optics, ones that were telling the mech to go out and warn the two to behave.

With a nod, Glitch moved and stepped outside. Sure enough the two looked ready for a fight against a ‘bot with raised hands. Glitch has never seen the mech around before, but judging by his spotless and even paint it was easy enough to see why the minicon brothers scrutinized him.

“I’m here to see Ratchet,” he said.

“Yeah? You and everyone else,” Frenzy this time added.

“But you certainly don’t look in need of repairs.” Rumble took a threatening step forward, Frenzy followed his brother’s lead.

When the mech looked to Glitch there was a plea in his blue optics. It was then Glitch could see the genuine nature of the ‘bot. He looked sincere and honest and overall friendly. However, before he could pass further judgement, Ratchet’s voice sounded behind him.

“Damn it, you two! How many times have I told you to stop vetting?” Ratchet’s optics were on the two at first before turning toward the mech. He paused, optical paneling brightening. Glitch hadn’t seen the doctor smile like that in a long time. “Orion?” The smile broadened as Ratchet flung his arms around the mech and the two embraced. “Well, damn it all, if I had known you were coming I would have cleaned up a bit.” He patted himself from the smears of oil and fluid, as well as the scorch marks from welding sparks.

“No need,” this Orion replied. His smile was that of an old friend. Someone from _up there_. “I was hoping to catch you in action.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re in luck.” He nodded back into the clinic. “I’ve got my hands full today, and so does my assistant.” Optics turned toward Glitch and suddenly his nervousness came back upon him. Ratchet was introducing him to his older friends?

“Assistant? Why, you are growing, aren’t you, Ratchet.” Orion held out a hand. “Orion Pax, a pleasure to meet you.”

Glitch hesitated for but a moment before reaching out and taking Orion’s hand. He could see understanding flicker across the mech’s optics, but he was polite enough to keep his curiosity to himself.

“He’s not really a talker,” Ratchet excused with a nod in Glitch’s direction. “Which is fine. Doesn’t at all interfere with his duties, and he’s one slag of a worker at that. Couldn’t ask for a better assistant.”

The flattery made Glitch’s spark chamber tickle from the fluctuating surges teeming around his spark. If he could smile he would.

“Come in, come in. Excuse the crowd, can’t do much about it.” Orion followed Ratchet’s beckon and Glitch afterward. “It’s not grand or anything, but it’s decent enough to get the job done.”

“Are you kidding, Ratchet? This looks amazing.” Orion’s optics were bright and observing, of course oblivious to, or just ignoring the way judgmental optics looked toward him from the patients surrounding. “You know, coming from where it is, I expected worse.”

“Oh, now you’re just spouting pointless flattery.” Ratchet chuckled as he returned to his patient, slinging out his weld and goggles.

Orion didn’t at all seem to think he was invading the doctor’s space as he came up alongside him and carried on their conversation. “No, I mean what I say. I’m really proud of you. It really seems you’re doing good for the ones here.”

“It’s all I can do,” Ratchet replied after he slung the welder back and shifted the goggles away. He was now moving plating back in place. “I’ve got to do something with that nagging medical programing.”

The two shared a few laughs, and Glitch did what he could to listen in. He knew it was rude to and that he had other duties, but each time he moved into the repair room to mix formulas for outpatients, he did what he could to catch pieces of their conversation. Some of it was reminiscent with topics about regaling academy years and younger dreams, but most of it was in topic of the current clinic and of the maintenance and the traffic it took in per day.

It was on Glitch’s sixth run through the chemicals to mix a formula that he noticed the topic change in regards to Megatron.

“We met Megatron in Iacon. Didn’t even know he was touring until Jazz came barging in with stadium tickets.”

“Yeah.” Glitch watched Ratchet shift, as if a means to bury his face more into his work. “That was his idea.”

“You didn’t want him to go?”

“I didn’t think it was best,” Ratchet replied. “But he had more than just the Games in mind, as you’re well aware.”

“There was a mixed reception in Iacon, but Vos and Tarn seemed more welcome to him,” Orion informed.

Ratchet nodded. “So I’ve been hearing. What about you, Orion, what do you think of it all?”

“Right now?” Orion paused for only a short moment. “Right now I want to know where you stand in it all.”

Ratchet had just twisted some wiring together. He slid muscular fiber back in place and gave the ‘bot the signal to move his arm and just as the mech listened, Ratchet turned to look at his friend. “Where do you think I do?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

Ratchet looked tired in that moment, and just as he motioned the ‘bot he had been repairing away he took a break, giving his full attention to his friend. “I don’t stand as close as you think I do.”

“Even though you’re his lover?”

There was surprise in Ratchet’s posture and the silence he held, but it conceded the moment after. “ _That_ has nothing to do with the movement.”

Orion nodded, his agreement partial. “No, but I think it means you stand closer than you perceive.”

Ratchet sounded a sigh, rubbing at his face plates. He crossed his arms, shifting from one pede to the other. It took him a moment to crawl back into a comfortable field, even from where Glitch stood sorting through chemicals he could feel the doctor’s unease. “Is there something you want, Orion? Is it the writings? You want me to convince him to stop publishing them? Or is it the gatherings? You want me to tell him to stop going? Look, I don’t have as much influence as you think. Obliviously; given our positions now.”

With Ratchet’s pitch raising near the end Glitch found out how smart Orion was. He followed softer, quickly backtracking. “I didn’t intend it like that.”

Ratchet huffed, shaking his helm. “I know you didn’t.” The affection in Ratchet’s optical paneling ran deep. This Orion meant a lot to him. Glitch wondered how long their friendship stretched. “But sometimes you come off like such a damn policebot.”

Ratchet smiled first, he was also the first to let out a short chuckle, his friend Orion followed. “I know,” he said. “It’s something I’m working on.”

“Yeah, well, work on it a little harder,” Ratchet pressed.

“How are you, Ratchet, through all of this?”

There was another pause in Ratchet’s response. The medic took a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke again. “Are we going to talk about my relationship or is this about Megatron’s gallivants?”

“Whatever topic you’re willing to dive into.”

“There isn’t much to make mention of it, gathered that you already know.” Ratchet gave the larger mech a curious look. “Do the others know?”

“Jazz suspects, and Prowl likely does. I think Thunderclash is on the verge of torturing it out of Jazz while most of us think it’s best to keep Pharma in the dark.”

Ratchet snorted. “His approval rating’s that low, huh?”

“It’s not that, it’s really . . .” Orion paused, stammered in his pacing. Ratchet could only nod in understanding.

“The movement.” Ratchet sounded another sigh. “You know, when I met him, he was still anonymous. I found out by accident and then the bastard tricks me into editing for him.”

“Do you still?”

Ratchet nods. “When he writes, but, lately he’s just been showing up and talking to the crowds. I knew back then that my part in it will inevitably be pointless but I got blindsided somewhere along the lines when I stood next to him.” His face shifts, it was that yearning again. Glitch could see it in the way Ratchet’s fingers curl. He has to hide his fists just to act like they weren’t there, like that emptiness he was feeling wasn’t there. “Here’s a good place as any to retire from editorial business, right?” Ratchet’s chuckle was dry and shallow.

“I don’t think you’re obsolete, Ratchet. And, not that I know any better, but I believe Megatron might feel the same.”

There was a moment of silence where the two simply gazed at the other. What was said silently Glitch couldn’t decipher. But the way they leaned into the other, and the comfort their fields gave helped the mech understand their deep friendship a little better.

“Don’t look at me like that, Orion. You can’t ask me to stop things I have no control of.” Ratchet was shaking his helm, turning his face away. “You think I want him to do all of that? You think I don’t know how dangerous it all is even though they’re just words? I’m worried over so much, frightened. For him. Primus, I’ve never been so scared in my existence.” His look towards Orion is resolute. “Not even for myself during my trial.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

Ratchet looked back at Orion as if he was surprised by the phrase. Glitch wasn’t certain why.

“Yes, I guess you could put it like that.” Ratchet looked stressed again, like the nights after closing when it was just the two of them in the clinic.

“I understand your fright, and I know you understand it won’t get easier.” Orion reached out and took Ratchet’s hands in his own. He held him tightly. “In light of everything I know that change will be coming to this planet sooner than any of us ever realized or believed. The circumstances on how they come are unclear, but even in that I want you to hold on. We’re still here for you, still fighting to bring you home and soon enough you’ll see Iacon again. But now I know that even in this travesty there was a meaning for you to come here.”

Ratchet smiled, shaking his helm. “You’ve always been a believer in the divine.”

“And I know you’ve never had an open processor.” Orion chuckled and Ratchet joined in.

“No, I’ve come this far with him, and I don’t plan on quitting just yet.” Ratchet was straightening, his facial features stern. Orion looked impressed, and with a nod of his helm he signaled his approval.

“I’ll do my best to keep an optic on him in the city.”

“Thank you.” Ratchet’s smile was tender and he and Orion moved onto other topics, ones Glitch had to miss as the patients called him back for their remedies.

Orion had stayed until closing. Glitch was left to finish closing the clinic as Ratchet and the policebot left to speak more over energon. When Ratchet returned later he was by himself, mentioning Orion’s departure before he headed for his office and fell into recharge.

Orion’s departure pulled some semblance of self-care in the doctor. He recharged a few extra cycles, ate a little more than the usual portions, and kept his temper back from insufferable patients for longer than he had been lately. It was a relief for the moment.

It was about three deca-cycles later when Glitch found himself issuing reschedules for a squadron of ‘bots when the door to the clinic opened and a large frame stepped into the waiting room. Looking up to inspect the new patient, Glitch zoned in on the form of Megatron’s frame. He gave him a look and then a single glance back toward the repair room before he held up a digit and placed it against his lips.

He moved then and Glitch watched as he maneuvered around gawking patients, discreet and incredibly silent for a mech of his size as he crept around Ratchet’s field. The medic was currently knelt, melding plates together on a ‘bot’s leg. Keeping in mind the caution of it all, Megatron did politely wait until Ratchet snapped off the welder to reach out and give the medic a start.

“The slag!?” Ratchet had jumped to his feet in an instant. Almost just as fast that welder was fired up, optics behind lenses were zoned and a grit expression met his would-be attacker. The moment Ratchet took in the sight of Megatron his jaw hinges loosened. “M-Megatro—?” Ratchet hadn’t even gotten the chance to finish once the larger leaned in and planted his mouth over that gapping one.

The kiss obviously disoriented Ratchet enough to make him oblivious to the whistles and snickers from the observing patients.

Shaking his helm, Ratchet shifted the goggles away and lowered the weld. “Wait, when did you—?” Megatron cupped his helm and pulled him back into a kiss and then another one. It was easily discerned that Ratchet willingly surrendered to those silencing kisses, but Glitch knew well enough when Ratchet’s frustration peaked over the inability to get a word in. “Mm, Megatron—” Another kiss stopped his further words. “Megatron, wait.” Ratchet pulled back. Glitch could hear his fans whirling. “When did you get back?”

“A little while ago.” Megatron leaned down and this time pressed a tender kiss to the mech’s jaw strapping. “And I have so much to tell you about.” That was when Megatron began pushing, guiding Ratchet’s frame back toward his office.

“Wait, what? Hey, no. I’m not done with him, I—” The moment the door shut Glitch assumed it was now his sole duty to patch up what he could, reschedule appointments, herd the remaining occupants out, and then close down the clinic. He got to work on that right away.

Soldiering through the complaints and pining patients, it took more than an effort for Glitch to clear the building. Of course after a few snaps of his claws and a malfunctioning show he enacted on a datapad the stragglers were more than compliant to his obvious demands. With a huff, Glitch successfully locked the doors and shut off misguiding lights.

Looking back toward the doctor’s office, Glitch could pick up the growing sounds; audial moans shared between a unifying pair. The intimate sounds only hitched in volume, bouncing off empty rooms. Still, they were pleasant, and from the pitches Glitch could determine Ratchet’s relief in having Megatron so close again.

Moving around, Glitch finished prepping the clinic for shutdown. He put away instruments, lowered energy fields, and sorted the chemicals back where they should be stationed. After that he took inventory, marking off the items they were in need of.

With his chores done Glitch then made the decision to create a shopping list. He would usually give it to Ratchet, but with his time completely taken by his returning lover, Glitch felt it only best he take up the duty. Not wanting to alarm or possibly fall into trouble with the doctor should he find him missing with the shanix Ratchet kept stored with the nitro oxides, he set out to write a short letter.

Taking up an empty crate, the ‘bot made his way out of the clinic. In the wake of his absence his note simply read:

_I’ve guided the patients away, rescheduled their appointments, given remedies to those listed, turned off the front lights, locked the doors, closed down the WR kiosks, powered down the equipment, cleaned the instruments, sorted through the chemicals and stored them away. I even took inventory and from the count I’ve left to replenish some of the stocks. Please don’t fret, I will be back soon. Enjoy yourself._

_Damus._

. . .

"Ratbat."

The senator turned in his seat, a fellow colleague approached him. It was Proteus.

His smile matched Ratbat's, and even as he reached out and patted his shoulder strut, the other mech knew better than to assume any form of friendliness.

"Senator Proteus, you're in a mood today. Usually it consists from the nag of scheduling shifts, or unhanded stress from council approval ratings. But now it's enmity. And against another senator. I do wonder what I might have done."

"Done?" Proteus didn't break his smile, no, it curved more with an outwardly friendly laughter as he used his taller stature to lean in closer. "I wonder the same." That hand resting on his strut tightened. "I'm curious, Ratbat; just what were you thinking taking that activist into your employment?"

Ratbat shifted, meeting a threatening gaze. "You make it sound as if I've a criminal on my payroll." He patted his chassis in an honest motion. "I assure you I would never stain my name with something so controversial."

"Then what are you doing?" Each word after stuck with emphasis, and now Proteus' smile was gone and the hue of his optics seemed a deeper, darker shade.

Ratbat knew his shrug wasn't the response Proteus wanted, neither was, "I'm a business 'bot, I was before I became a senator, and I still am. You're to put some dastardly blame on me for turning a profit?" Ratbat held his smile, even going as far to move away, out of Proteus' controlling reach. He knew how far to stand from the danger zone.

"Profit?" Turning, Ratbat noticed Decimus' honing interest. He was approaching them. "Profit is automated mines and mills and boards, not rousing rioters masquerading as gladiators."

"Don't you and he have a history, Decimus?" Ratbat fully turned to the other mech, his posture relaxed as if mocking the tensed atmosphere. "If it wasn't for your own business endeavors then my mech would still be just another miner 'bot. In a way I guess I have to thank you for pushing him toward me."

That seemed to irk Decimus. Good.

Ratbat heard Senator Momus laugh and when optics turned to him he quieted and tried to disappear from threatening radars.

"I think Senator Ratbat's not seeing the situation at hand," Senator Crosscut spoke up, the subject in the rest hall became as avid a conversation as the ones in the imperium.

"Always a level-helmed mech, Crosscut," Proteus praised his fellow, he even offered the mech a smile, but it all fell when he turned back toward Ratbat. "You see, why can't you be more like our dear Crosscut?"

"I still don't understand what's ruffling your glide feathers?" Ratbat leaned back in his seat, lounging away the agitated fields around him. "Am I detecting worry, because, gentlebots, do you really think a miner from Tarn can shake up the entire planet?" He laughed for those who wouldn't. "Even I won't give the kid that much bearing. So he inspires a frustrated populace, like we haven't dealt with the upset before. Maybe it'll last a little longer, maybe it won't, but all I know is that these misguided saps are buying what he's sellin', and I want to dig my digits into that while the going is good."

"As savvy as you are, you can also be ignorant," Proteus replied, his denta close to grinding. "Who do you think will be the first on the list once when that overlooked movement move into dangerous levels? I would think the closest political figure." Oh, Proteus meant him, didn't he? "You should know well enough that it's safer to snuff out flames before they enlarge."

Ratbat snorted, nodding his helm. "Yeah, like all those skeletal structures in our closets." He smiled knowingly at every single Senator. He gave Proteus a knowing look as his fiasco had been the latest of political cover-ups. That poor medibot. He sometimes wondered whatever became of him.

"I'm with Ratbat." Optics turned toward Sherma. He looked nervous under their stares for speaking out, but with a look and nod toward Ratbat, he showed his support on the opinion. "They haven't showed themselves to be threatening."

“They haven’t been given the chance to.” Optics were now on Dai Atlas who looked to be loosely following the conversation, but the light in his scarlet optics shown his attention. “And I do hope none of you would look to give them reason to.”

"There isn’t need to; their attitudes speak for them," Decimus said. "Have you see the crowds in my city, and the things they chant? I'm already hiring more guards because of the constant verbal threats."

"After all these approved automotive systems many 'bots have found themselves among the unfortunate end of the occupational spectrum, so if you're only complaining about ‘verbal threats’ then count yourself among the lucky." Ratbat shook his helm.

"Are you defending them?" Decimus glared and Ratbat thought he might have heard a hissing pitch in his frequency.

"Them?" Ratbat questioned, leaning his frame toward the glaring mech. "Are you suddenly lumping every rowdy 'bot with the movement?"

"Now, those writings of Megatron’s are controversial," Crosscut spoke up. "Especially the first few publications. The latter writings seem neutered in comparison, but they all speak of some form of usurp, whether figuratively or not."

"Yes, exactly!" Decimus hailed. "They border blasphemy, and incriminate his intentions."

"Intentions of which are just that. Look, mechs, until he makes any sort of movement himself against the governmental bodies, I have every right to keep him in my employment." Ratbat crossed his arms, set in his ways.

"You're a fool to risk that wait." Ratbat turned hard optics toward Proteus. "Not that I'm concerned for your wellbeing, there are aspects of this life which I'd rather preserve. It is unfortunate that you happen to hold so much influence on the course of these pathways and yet remain inactive to the approaching cautions."

"You know, from where I sit, you all sound as if you're frightened by a simple sportsbot whose hobby includes public speaking." Ratbat's chuckle and humor was not shared by the other frowning faces in the room.

"More like annoyed," Decimus added in a lower pitch.

Rolling his optics, Ratbat let out a sigh. "Good Primus, look, isn't this why we have Sentinel Prime? Should anything by off chance arise do we doubt our Prime's ability?" The silence in the room was answer enough, and Ratbat knew well just how the Senate saw Sentinel. It all really made him laugh. "Well, that's a fine ship we've landed ourselves in, isn't it? Fret all you want. I know trends when I see one."

With that, the Senator stood and left the room, deciding he wanted outside protein instead of the slag usually wading around within the walls of the Grand Imperium.

. . .

Though Megatron was back in Kaon, it in no way meant he was free from work. His out-city touring was complete, for the time being, but his sponsorship carried on. And he returned with more than a few extra signed on sponsors. Kaon’s own coliseum often called him topside, but with the matches closer to home, further adjustments were easily made.

Megatron made mounts of credit, so much so that one of his first orders of business upon return was to move. Ratchet was more than eager to make this change. The new place was bigger, had multiple rooms and cleansing stations, and there was an office, of which was designated to be his.

Carrying over what they had from their small apartment had proved no sort of challenge, the residing one now was getting their new home filled. Neither he nor Megatron had many personal belongings, even after the stretch of time they’d been together. It was this fact that was blatantly apparent in the echoes of their new estate.

Ratchet’s venting even bounced off the expansive walls. With hands on his hip plates he turned. “We need to get this place some furnish before I lose my damn processor.”

Megatron had moved through the room, plopping down a crate that carried a majority of his belongings. “That can certainly be done.” His smile countered Ratchet’s disdainful frown. “Can you believe it, Ratchet? A home like this, and here we are able to argue about whether or not to purchase furnish.”

Ratchet’s frown faltered when he noticed the soft pitches in Megatron’s tone. The fondness in his expressions also moved the medibot into the gladiator’s excited field. With a nod, Ratchet reached out and took hold of Megatron’s hand, the other immediately squeezed back. “Yes, it is something else.” While grateful for the privilege, Ratchet still never forgot where most of that credit stemmed from.

“I’ve worked so hard, endured so much.” Megatron roamed his optics around the space surrounding them. He vented, as if taking in the atmosphere and overtaking his filters with it. “From the mines, to the streets, to the pits . . .” He looked down at Ratchet, his hand twitching in his. “To here.”

“You deserve everything you’ve gotten,” Ratchet validated. His optics gleamed into Megatron’s and as the larger frame nodded, he turned to look at the empty space around him.

“A home of my own, one without a double-processed rent-lord, it’s been a dream of mine since before I can recollect.” He shifted, a chuckle on his lips. When his optics turned down toward Ratchet again, the light felt right. “I’m glad you’re here to join me in this.”

Ratchet leaned against Megatron’s arm, a smile for him. “There’s no other place I’d rather be.”

“You know, you were another dream of mine.” Ratchet looked up, his smile persisted, encouraged along with Megatron’s own affectionate features. “Not many ‘bots get the chance to find someone to love and cherish, but they all dream of one.” When he reached down to run gentle digits down the face plating of the mech he had missed the most during his tour, he preened when Ratchet reached back up and cupped that hand.

“Is there any other dreams I can help you fulfil?” Ratchet was smiling, leaning into Megatron’s touch when all of the sudden those hands moved away. With bright optics he watched the larger mech shift and grasp both his hands, and with a tug he followed his lead.

“You’re about to help me see one right now.” Megatron’s smile was wide when he pulled Ratchet along toward the lounge room. In that the entire side of the room was lined with panes of large windows, cleaned and clear, the perfect spot to view the shifting atmosphere outside.

It was there that Megatron stood, his arms wound around Ratchet as the smaller pressed his backside into Megatron’s chassis. They stood there for some time, admiring the world outside, watching as the lights of Cybertron flickered on the darker night set in, how stars rotated around the planet, some even skating across the sky in bows of bright brilliance. It almost felt like they were an observer stationed on one of the moons, but they were right there, simply two in the millions of Cybertronians moving in motion.

“You were right, the view’s beautiful,” Ratchet said and vents softly.

It had been some time since he’s been so relaxed, and of course it would only ever be when those strong silver arms were wrapped around him with that soothing field rubbing against him. But there was still something more comforting being up in Diagonal Tower with Megatron. Perhaps it was because he knew how satisfying it could be when a dream comes to life, more so when you had one to share that experience with.

Ratchet further leaned into the touch of Megatron’s lips against his neck cabling. “Primus, I’ve missed you.” One of Ratchet’s hands rose, resting against Megatron’s helm. “Tell me you won’t leave again, please.” There was pending disappointment when Megatron’s lips moved away, from the lack of touch as well as his upcoming response.

“In a quartex I will have to again,” Megatron replied, his tone sounded just as upset.

Ratchet twisted himself. He bumped chest plating, his hands rose and gripped, and his optics shined, illuminating Megatron’s face with brilliant blue. “Then here’s another dream: you and me, right here, living, holding, not having to answer to anyone, not having to work so damn hard just to make it by. The only form of payment necessary are the smiles every day calls for.” Ratchet rose a servo, pressing his palm against Megatron’s jaw strapping. “From both you and me. I think in a world like that, it wouldn’t be too hard.”

Megatron grasped Ratchet’s hand, both of them. “I’d like to strive for that dream, as well as be a part of it.”

Ratchet’s smile was softer now. He nodded, his field encouraging Megatron to lean over him. “I would too.” The touch of their lip plates was gentle, but the passion sparking behind the kiss pulled them closer still.

While the two had consummated the relief of their reunion more than a few times before, every time they were in each other’s arms they found no strength to pull away, and the spark that they started each time from simple touches evolved into flames neither felt necessary putting out. It was how Ratchet found himself pressed against the berth in their quarters—one of the only pieces of furnish they were able to procure—his legs wrapped around Megatron’s pelvic plating, with his mouth molding into the other’s.

Having Megatron pull away annoyed Ratchet, and he was about to reach out to tug him back hadn’t he noticed the odd look in the mech’s optics when he took hold of his wrist rotators. “I want you to try something,” Megatron said with an expectant smile. “Would you offline your optics for me?”

Ratchet paused for a moment. “You want me to what?”

Shifting closer, Megatron leaned back on his knee joints. “Trust me, I think you’ll enjoy this experience.”

Ratchet didn’t quite understand what shutting down his optics would do for an interfacing experience, but he yielded and did so. Leaning back was a little rough, though he had Megatron’s steadying hands to guide him back into a comfortable position. In fact, those hands then slid down his arms and over his chassis. It was a strange sensation; to feel but not observe. There was some wariness in it all of course, giving rise to anxiousness bordering nervousness, however when those digits dug into fine seams, grazing at sensitive wiring underneath, Ratchet couldn’t help but lose focus on the fear of a new experience and instead toward the only diagnostic he was able to read, and it was nothing but sensories.

So focused with anticipating on where those digits were going to slide down, Ratchet hadn’t realized how hot his plating was until the sound of his cooling fans whirled. Alerts from the schematics of his core temperatures were quickly ignored because Megatron moved his touch places he hadn’t anticipated and his shuddering body wasn’t ready to brace itself for so much stimulation to those random spots. By the time those fingers rubbed against pelvic plating, Ratchet could certainly make out the sound of metal dragging against moist metal.

Who knew the unknown would thrill the medic so much? One moment Ratchet would be able to locate the perimeter of Megatron’s touch when it vanished and the estimation of where those experienced hands would fall next heated the medibot to the point he was going to rattle out of his plates. So when Megatron’s fingers came and brushed against intimate paneling Ratchet jolted and gasped out.

“Megatron!” Reaching down, Ratchet tried to grab the mech’s hand and urge him to touch him _more_ and _harder_ , but his flailing arms were caught and effectively pinned.

“Let me do all the work,” he heard Megatron say, and he could feel him over him, staring at him. There was a hand caressing his face then whilst the other slid back down between his thighs. Ratchet eagerly slid his valve paneling open, but Megatron didn’t penetrate him yet.

With the compliance, Megatron shifted, moving down again. Ratchet could feel his hands over him, dipping between seams and rubbing under plating. When he felt the mech’s lips the first place was right over his chassis, and Ratchet trilled at that. Something deep inside him shifted and in that moment he felt a near unyielding urge to pull his chest plates back and let those lips descend further into his most intimate of intimates.

Ratchet might have done all those things hadn’t Megatron moved and kissed further down against his tank and every shifting plate around. Sighs and moans broke into the space around them. Ratchet still couldn’t understand why everything felt so heightened and individually focused. He wasn’t a novice to interfacing with the gladiator and has felt those lips over him more than they had been away from him, but right then he was shaking, his core churning to the point of overload, and they hadn’t even connected their interface paneling yet.

Ratchet had overloaded, the very moment Megatron’s warm glossa wiggled its way into his valve. He didn’t have time to profuse an apology for the sudden rush, he was too busy feeling everything he’s never seen before. The throbbing in his port, the pulsing surges that carried throughout his ligaments, making them twitch and jitter with excitement, the quick rush of coolant flooding overheated systems. Primus, that felt too good.

“Keep them offline.” It was as if Megatron knew Ratchet was about to online his optics. However, he was sedated enough not to fight no matter how much he wanted to save another memory log of Megatron’s face awash with his purging lubricant.

Settling himself back into the berth, Ratchet tilted his knee joints, helping Megatron return to the spot he was before. He arched into Megatron’s returning touch and that glossa. Even after the previous overload, Ratchet found his core heating again.

“Mmm, Megatron, oh, Megatron, I want to see you, I want to . . .” Ratchet arched again, reaching out searching hands until they laid against warm plating. The mech between his thighs shifted, pressing himself into those grasping hands.

“Not yet, not yet.” Megatron’s hands were on him again, gliding up and down until he took the medic’s processor away from the desire to see him by letting him focus on the way his fingers stretched him. “Just wait a little longer.”

Finally able to find that face, Ratchet pulled until those lips were on his. Glossas glided together, taking in every substance smeared on its surface and discerning it from taste alone. His own hands fanned down Megatron’s form, making sure he felt those tremors and shifts as he found places he was certain Megatron more than enjoyed his touch on. It was in this touching embrace that Ratchet gapped, his helm falling back just as Megatron’s spike pushed inside.

“Ooh!” Ratchet’s digits dug into plating, clinging to the mech as he pushed his length further into his throbbing valve. Primus dammit, why did it feel like the first time all over again? That invading appendage was more than familiar to the medic by now, that shifting bulk above him a memorized weight, and the sound of that rumbling voice was recognized, but in that defining moment Ratchet felt as if this was someone entirely new.

It all was so overwhelming that Ratchet moved his hands, gripping Megatron now to hold him still and to keep him that way. “Wait, wait! Stay, just, just don’t move.” He vented, listening to the sound of his cooling fans, and then focusing on the feel of his squeezing valve. “Just let me feel it all.”

Megatron submitted to Ratchet’s wish and didn’t at all move until the medic took the initiative to do so first. His gyrations were small, experimental, and not that he believed Megatron minded the slower pace, he still didn’t quite expect the mech to flip them and then situate him onto his lap.

“Go ahead,” Megatron vented against Ratchet’s collar plating, lips rubbing. “Just feel it all.”

Ratchet’s arms were wrapped around Megatron’s neck structure, loose enough to lean away and move his hips downward onto that hot shaft inside him. The pace wasn’t at all a concern for either of them, and even as Megatron’s hands squeezed Ratchet’s moving hips, they simply held, following the smaller mech’s lead.

Kisses littered Ratchet’s face, his neck cables, and his shoulder struts. Megatron’s bucks rubbed against Ratchet’s internal nodes so well that the medibot’s vocals matched the surges of pleasure he was feeling right then. They both rode these sensations until they fell off the edge together in a tangled mess.

And there they lay, wrapped in the other’s arms, Ratchet’s optics finally coming online. He shook his helm with a chuckle. “Just where did you learn that trick from?” Shutting off optics during interface? Not a common notion, but it was definitely something Ratchet would likely do again soon.

Megatron snickered, his jaw strapping rubbing over Ratchet’s helm as his hand skimmed knuckle gears down Ratchet’s backstraps. “My first experience was with a blind pleasurebot. Odd, and unusual, but she never fixed her optics because she liked to simply feel. She taught me quite a few things, things I’ve always wanted to do with the one I wanted to spend the rest of my existence with.”

The way Megatron looked at Ratchet had the smaller feeling as if his systems were glitching. Oh, they had been for some time. He already knew that.

It was just accepting said glitches that Ratchet had to finally come to terms with.

When Megatron’s hand laid over Ratchet’s chassis, Ratchet took that hand in his and just held him there. “Megatron, I was miserable without you.”

Megatron nodded, his thumb rubbing over the hand holding his. “As was I. It’s a travesty that we have to be kept apart for so long.”

“No, I mean even before.” Ratchet sounded a sigh, rough from lingering overload and the rising fright he felt coiling inside his spark chamber. “Before, when I was in Iacon, when I was in the Academy, and when I was at the facility. When you were on tour it felt like that all over again and I was so lonely, so desolate that I just wanted to quit. I’m a medibot, I’m programed not to quit, but I wanted to, I wanted to just drop all my tools and leave my patients so I could run off and find you. I . . . I’m still not entirely sure what it is or if it’s wrong or right, and I think back, back to all those times I was certain you would be just another face I’d come to remember from my past, but you’re not that face I remember because you’re the face I’m seeing right now, the one I can’t stand _not_ seeing.” Ratchet was quiet then, his optics shining, looking at Megatron, into him. Then, he glanced down, letting go of his hand as his own dug into chassis seams and assisted the plating in shifting away and opening. There wasn’t another moment of hesitation after that when the chamber snapped open to illuminate the dark room in a luminance of soft blue light.

Megatron’s optics sparkled, his jaw hinges loose as he stared at the bared spark. He then looked at Ratchet with enough surprise for the both of them. There really was nothing more to be said or asked or implied. Ratchet knew he couldn’t further voice his feelings and so he wanted to show them, and he was hoping Megatron understood them enough to do what he had been longing he’d do.

All of that yearning and all of the longing Ratchet had suffered through while Megatron hauled away on tour was shining in his optics, because even right there he felt he was so far away from him still and Ratchet just couldn’t stand that feeling any longer. The rising fright inside him was worrying if Megatron felt the same. Ratchet knew he did, but at the same time that worry ate away at him to the point he was anxious and the plea in his eyes pulled and pulled until his field was close to erratic.

When Megatron shifted, when his field pushed right back to calm Ratchet’s fray, he reached out, the tips of his fingers brushed against the pulses of the fluctuating orb and right then Ratchet felt his anxiety shatter. Helm down, he shuddered. There was a sound that escaped his mouth, something similar to a sob. The sound must have alarmed Megatron, because he pulled his hand away and his field bled out concern. Ratchet only shook his helm and looked at the mech before him, a smile on his lips and love in his optics.

Reaching out, Ratchet took Megatron’s retracted hand and pulled it back into his chest, letting him touch his spark again. Megatron’s movements and field was much more enthused now and after a few experimental touches he pulled back even against Ratchet’s insistence he stay. He silenced those doubts with a quick kiss before taking Ratchet’s hands and placing them onto his own chassis, from there he guided those fingers into seams as they shifted and opened, and suddenly Ratchet was the one bathed in a green light.

Mouth agape and optics bright, Ratchet took in the sight. The orb was strong, its pulses wide and quick. The color was vibrant, and the mass only slightly larger than his own, but it was . . .

“Beautiful.” Ratchet reached out but stopped before he let any pulse brush against his fingers. Looking at Megatron, his optics whirled with so many questions, but Megatron simply smiled them away and tugged on those curious hands. A point one percenter, Ratchet honestly would have never guessed Megatron would harbor such a rare spark. Ratchet had never physically seen one, but had always imagined perhaps one day getting the privilege in performing open spark surgery on one.

“Ratchet.” Ratchet jolted away from his thoughts, his optics melding into intense scarlet ones. “I feel the same. I honestly don’t know how I survived the entire time I was away. I was given everything I needed; energon, medical assistance, even a weapons volley, but when they offered me metallic comfort I already knew that need would never be satisfied. There was one ‘bot, a mech who has been the only one to reel me in when I come undone, steer me in the right direction when I lose my way in the dark, and it came to the point where I physically hurt knowing that he wasn’t there with me. It was absolutely astounding how strong a feeling that was over me. But right here, right now,” he reached out, fingers brushing Ratchet’s spark, “I can’t seem to recall what it was like before you, and frankly, I never want to.” Shifting again, Megatron took Ratchet’s hands in his, kissing them. “Do you think you could ever become my Conjunx Endura?”

Ratchet was smiling when he gently slid his hands out of Megatron’s grasp. He was still smiling when he cupped the gladiator’s face. “I thought I already was.” He leaned in and kissed Megatron, it was reciprocated only a short klik later just as their forms arched, chests pressing together and sparks merging.

The sheer intensity of the spark merge jolted them both, shaking them from the inside out. Arms wound tight around the other, both refusing to let go even as systems collided in an overlaying, glitching mess, with diagnostics fritzing and coding shifting and twisting. Cores tempted far quicker than common interface stimulation, both absolutely hot to the touch, but all too happy to melt into the other frame.

There was something else. Reminiscent of replying fields, Ratchet felt emotion, raw and unhinged. At first he thought it was his own because he was certain it was, but after a moment he came to understand that it wasn’t just his own, but the other spark’s pressed so close to his. Even after all of the studies and testing, nothing could have prepared Ratchet for a merge and he was so glad because this new experience was something he was grateful to share with someone like Megatron.

The love, the excitement, the sudden fright from this overloading tip toward danger but deeper understand, Ratchet felt himself inside Megatron, and Megatron inside himself. In knowing this and grasping it all he released himself into the one he clung to, no longer afraid to give himself completely away.

“Megatron,” he gasped, burying his face into the other’s neck cabling, content to keep their sparks so close. He felt as if he were crying all over again, and he knew he was, and he knew Megatron felt it all.

Megatron’s strong arms bent Ratchet into himself and the smaller felt completely engulfed in his powerful responding surges. “Ratchet, Ratchet, I love you so much!”

The sob was heard as was it felt and it echoed out of Megatron just as soon as Ratchet created it. “So do I. I love you, Megatron!” Ratchet shifted only slightly, trembling arms moved along hot plating. “Please, please stay with me.”

Just as Ratchet felt that deep adoration, no doubt Megatron could feel the fright that Ratchet has kept with him since learning of his involvement in the anti-functionist movement. It lingered, but it was pushed down to a small portion by the sheer weight of Megatron’s affection pouring out right then. And Ratchet was overwhelmed, and he couldn’t help but kiss him again as he cried his love to eternity.

Coming undone from a spark merge was something that made Ratchet want to leave his frame entirely just so he and Megatron’s spark could dance forever, orbiting the other until the end of time. For the first time in his existence he hadn’t felt a shred of fear. It was something deep, deeper still that snapped between sizzling sparks, and as the orbs were pulled away, Ratchet and Megatron cried out from the separation.

There was energy strung between their sparks as they settled back in their respective chambers, a connection, an invisible reminder of what was created and secured. It was something Ratchet felt he could explain using every Cybertronian word but at the same time felt that no word would be able to be of any use in explaining and understanding just what happened.

As they lay in the berth, hand in hand, forehelm to forehelm, and chassis to chassis, their bodies thrummed; vibrations from surging sparks that continued to tap against sealed spark chambers, sensing the partner it had danced with and longing to do so again. No recharge called either mech, both were too lost in the others’ optics and in the feelings they felt through their chests. That night lasted for an eternity and ended too soon, but it was one Ratchet would hold within in his spark just as he knew Megatron would.

. . .

“Now that they’ve actually seen him they’ve quite decided they don’t like him, and when the Senate doesn’t like a mech, well, you understand what political ostracizing really equates to.”

Orion sounded a sigh. Hands clasped together, he could feel his digits moving in agitation, applying pressure out of frustration. Looking at his companion, he held some sort of resentment for him only because of his positon as a fellow senator, though, none of this was Dai Atlas’ fault.

“I expected they would,” he replied, his tone light, disappointed, but understanding. “I had hoped that perhaps he and the topics he writes and speaks of would be considered insignificant. I know how much it takes to garner any amount of attention from them.”

Dai Atlas shifted, drumming his fingers on the table they shared over a few cubes of high grade, surrounded by Iacon’s metropolis. “Either you hope for too little or you don’t see the obvious. I, myself, have skimmed his biography and find the danger my colleagues see.”

“What danger?” Orion scoffed, shaking his helm. “Tell me what he’s done or those harmless glyphs. Inspired the masses? Fine, but what have they done? Nothing.”

Dai Atlas rose a brow. “Megatron; he is your friend? You speak quite highly of him and are very familiar with his works.”

Orion caught himself, and the look the senator was giving him. “An acquaintance, but a mech undeserving of the premature judgement given to him. As privileged as I am, I am just low enough on the system to understand his ideals and why the surprising numbers of other ‘bots flock to his standing. My only wish is for those with the highest seats come to terms with this and that there is a chance to meet in the middle.”

“You aim too high with your wishes, Officer Pax.” Dai Atlas shook his helm, optics gazing out into the bustling city passing them by.

“And that is the unwritten crime, isn’t it?” Orion glared, upset swirling in his optics. There was a passion inside them, one of pure intent, but there was duty as well, one ingrained in his programing that even the Senator found trust in. It was the others—the likes of Megatron—that he found wary thoughts on.

“I would hear him,” Dai Atlas assured. “And the others that follow, but I am in the minority, and I’m afraid that should he continue to agitate the status quo my brethren have shaped for themselves, he’ll find himself in bad company, and those who know him.” He looked toward Orion and watched the worry swirl into full force in his optical paneling. “I do hope he is just an acquaintance, Orion, I wouldn’t wish anything tragic to befall you. You’re a good mech, and I see prominent positions in your future.”

“With all due respect, Lord Dai Atlas, I’m not concerned for my future.”

Dai Atlas nodded. “No, you’re concerned for another.” Shifting again, the Senator leaned forward, “Tell me, did you ever locate your medic friend? I do hope he didn’t find himself in the likes of Kaon, much less its sub levels.”

Orion’s silence was answer enough, as was Dai Atlas’. This only worried the officer, because if the Senator knew then perhaps the others senators caught wind of Ratchet’s actual location.

“I did locate him,” Orion answered. “And, as promised, I will be bringing him back to Iacon. I have my witness, as well as substantial evidence for his case.”

Dai Atlas didn’t look enthused, nor supportive. Not that he ever had. But it was the lack of belief that worried Orion the most.

“Oh, Orion, now isn’t the best time to reintroduce your friend. With the senate’s mind on the anti-functionist movement, they are already in pending verdict mode. Other trials would be cannon fodder, no matter their insignificance.” Dai Atlas stood motioning for Orion to join him as they left their table and took to the streets, transforming and driving alongside one another.

“Then how long must I wait?” Orion asked, his pitch rising. Distress flawing his frequency. “Haven’t I waited enough? Ratchet he, he’s one of my best friends and I’m not the only friend he still has in the city.”

“If you care for your friend like you confess then you’ll bide your time,” Dai Atlas advised. “Megatron must be silent or else no serious focus will turn back to Ratchet’s trial.”

“I can’t ask him to do that,” Orion stressed. “Even if he did there are now hundreds, thousands more others who will take up where he left off and I’m afraid to see their edit to his ending.”

The two turned, taking the roads towards Translucentica Heights when Orion asked—

“What about you, Senator? What is your opinion on the movement?”

For some time Dai Atlas drove in silence and Orion was in the process of asking again when the older mech spoke up, saying, “I can see the truth in it, and the irony, and the prejudice. I understand why it’s come because I understand the root problem of our societal structure. Inasmuch I also understand that a simple movement won’t change a damn thing.”

“Then what do you think will?”

“A war.”

It was about six vehicles ahead that started the chain reaction. Brakes activated and gears screeched and hover rotators blared as traffic came to a complete halt. The next thing Orion or Dai Atlas knew was that there was screaming.

There had been a femme carrying three sparklings with her when a projectile landed in the middle of the road. She hadn’t been at the forefront, but was close enough to where her carried children were jostled and frightened, and that frightened her to the point of hysteria. The ‘bots closer had seen the damage and transformed away with rubble coating their surfaces. They immediately backed away, too startled to pry any closer to the done damage.

“Ma’am, ma’am, calm down. I’m an officer; there’s no need to worry.” Orion was instantly moving forward, reaching out to lay steadying hands on the hysteric carrier. Her litter was clinging to her, crying just as she was. Orion did his best to give them all proper scans even as they wiggled from his touch. “There doesn’t seem to be any damage, but I’ll call in the medibots just in case.” From there he moved forward, Dai Atlas on his tail. He pushed past a sudden crowding circle and finally got the impact point.

Inside the crater lay a ‘bot, twisted and broken, and offline. His scheme was familiar as his frame once had been. Turbo.

“Primus, did he jump?”

“A suicide?”

“The poor mech.”

“Right into traffic too. You think the fall killed him or one of us?”

The ‘bots around began crowding Orion’s processor and with the sudden shock of it all he was finding it hard to concentrate. His field shifted, spiking and twisting, something similar as if he were in physical pain. He was fine and well, however, his witness . . . wasn’t.

Turning, Orion’s bright optics looked to Dai Atlas. The mech said nothing but Orion understood the look on his face and the bitter message in his optics: “Do you understand now?”

Frightened? For himself? Not really. Of the clear show of power a single mech could possess? Of course. Orion knew this was nothing self-inflicted, he knew this was no accident. Turbo’s face, though smashed and cracked, looked frightened, mouth hung open as if he were screaming. No doubt he was in the final moments.

And now Orion wanted to scream. As insightful as he was, he wasn’t hard-helmed enough to understand Dai Atlas’ premonitions and take them seriously. All to the point he knew he needed to get Ratchet out of Kaon and away from Megatron.

It wasn’t his disapproval of the revolutionist mech, nor his fellows, it was the fact that the wrath of the senate, and likely the high council, were about to come down upon him. And more than anything Orion wanted Ratchet away from the oncoming destruction. He’s suffered enough and as dear as he was to Orion, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Ratchet shattered all over again.

Unfortunately, Orion’s fear delved in deep, worrying over whether or not Ratchet’s attachment took root. Because if it had then he didn’t know how he’d ever be able to pull him away, even as the imminent bombs fell.


	9. The Beginning

Ratchet never figured himself a materialistic ‘bot. He had taken nothing worthy of note into his Academy years and for the span after he remained modest, carrying with himself and his lodging only the necessities his occupation and maintenance called for. But after his fall from grace Ratchet couldn’t help but yearn for a few more necessities and unnecessaries. Like accents and well-crafted furnish to fill up his home with, as well as a new paint job.

Ratchet doesn’t want to begin to recall the last time he was able to procure a full-body repaint.

“Out of all those color assortments, you decided to keep your whites and reds?” Despite the words, Megatron looked quite approving of Ratchet’s repainted scheme.

“I’m still a medibot. It’s nice to look the part,” Ratchet reasoned, albeit unofficial. He twisted, his smile wide at the clean scape of his frame. He damn near looked brand new. “What, you don’t like it?”

Knowing optics caught the way Megatron’s frame tensed. Those hands of his were fisted, as if he was restraining himself. “I . . . never said that,” the gladiator defended. He came closer, and when he was within an arm’s reach away he stretched out his hands. “But I must say you look ravishing.”

“Ah.” Ratchet held up a halting red hand. “That ravishing will have to wait until after the paint’s dried.” Megatron looked stunned and more than a little disappointed, all of which made Ratchet laugh. “What did you expect with a repaint?”

That usual pouty frown set in whilst Megatron shifted, crossing his arms though keeping his distance respectful. “Some gratitude and one slag of a fragging, obviously.”

Ratchet chuckled along, his optics running over his plating. So pristine and perfect. “You continue you to spoil me, you know? New tools and machinery for the clinic, a home in Diagonal Tower, furniture, and now a new paint job.” Optical lighting fluttered at Megatron endearingly. “I think you’ve earned a solid week’s worth of ‘facing.” He snickered when he heard Megatron’s fans kick in. Any more suggestive talk and he’d likely fall into the same temperature. “But, for the record, I’d frag you even without all of these things.”

“It does me good to know my approval rating is still so high,” Megatron teased back, grinning sharper as he stepped closer to which Ratchet countered with a step back.

“Ah, one more step, and I take back everything I said,” Ratchet warned, though the smile on his face and undertone in his words were anything but threatening. “Besides, don’t you have some ‘bots to meet?”

Megatron nodded. “I was hoping you might join me in the meeting.”

Ratchet’s helm rolled with his optics. “Whatever for? It’s not like I can bring anything to the table. They want to see Megatron.”

“And they’ve seen me. I think it’s about time they see you.” Megatron shifted closer, on instinct he wanted to reach out and place comforting hands on the medic, but caught himself, stopping subconscious motions. Instead he let his field brush out, rubbing against Ratchet, looking for the worries he so oft chased away.

Ratchet sounded a sigh. “Do they even know who I am?”

Megatron nodded. “Of course they do. They know you’re my mate, and know how important your voice is in this cause.”

Flattering as the words were, Ratchet could only shake his helm. “How about my banishment? Or the murder accusation? Do they know about that?” Ratchet’s optics glared, a frown dampening his features. He didn’t hate Megatron for leaving out what he considered unimportant information, but in the same aspect those details were just as crucial to announce, especially to mecha Megatron was coming to closely associate himself with. “Megatron, if you want them to see me then they have to see _me_.”

In time Megatron nodded, his helm falling as red optics glared at shifting pedes. “One of these days that’s all going to change.” He looked up, back at Ratchet. There was a light in his optics that the medibot’s only ever seen when he speaks to the crowds, the ones willing to put their existences on the line for this perceived change. “One of these days, Ratchet, I want to introduce you as my conjunx and just that. Nothing further to warn the others of what you’ve done or been accused of to save them from the titles Cybertron’s laden you with. And one of these days, others will understand too.”

Ratchet’s smile returned softly. “I would like that.” He yearned to reach out and take Megatron’s hand right then, but he held fast and remembered his paint. “Perhaps I’ll stop by sometime later when the layers set. You can introduce me to the others then?”

Megatron nodded, his field molding around Ratchet’s to embrace him. “I’ll be eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

The majority of the visitors were from Tarn, and despite the distance of their cities, they eagerly traveled to Kaon in respect to Megatron’s current placement. There was no meeting in the streets this time around. Megatron secured a housing unit for the comfort of his guests and himself. It was at the front of which he was standing, shaking hands with those just arriving.

“I am more than honored you chose to make such travels to Kaon.”

Shockwave nodded his helm. “Given your locked scheduling; it was only logical to come to you.”

“Of which I am grateful for, my friends.” With a wave of his hand, Megatron motioned for the ‘bots to enter, promising comfort and refreshments for his guests. As they passed him by Megatron fell impressed by their numbers, but noticed one missing aspect to the crowd. “I was under the assumption that Soundwave would be here.” He looked to Shockwave for the answer.

“Shackles in the form of employment,” Shockwave responded. “Senator Ratbat does not give his workers much freedom apart from their assigned duties. Attending rallies is not one of them.”

Despite his silence, Megatron knew he felt a kinship with the outlier. And he wanted him to know he was always welcome beside him. A shame really, perhaps next time.

“Before it becomes rude of me . . .” Megatron watched Shockwave turn, motioning to a set of aerials.  “Allow me to introduce you to Starscream, newly appointed senator of Vos, and his entourage: Thundercracker and Skywarp.”

“Vos?” Megatron shifted, holding out his hand in greeting. He didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “New senator? Here? Why, the pleasure is all mine, Senator Starscream.”

The seeker looked skeptical more than the others attending Megatron’s staged talks. He shook his offered servo out of common curtesy, but the look in his rouge optics was something Megatron has seen before.

“So, you are him.” Starscream shifted, his wings twitching only slightly. “For someone who’s worked up the Senate so much I’d say I expected _more_.”

Megatron chuckled, holding out his arms to simply reveal himself. “And just what else were you expecting? Some tyrant seated on a throne made of enemy skeletal frames?” Megatron snorted then. “If that’s what you wanted to see then I suggest you turn back to the Grand Imperium.”

It was Skywarp’s snicker that turned the seekers. Even as he quickly hid away any humor he related in the subject, Megatron saw through them all. These mechs, though come to discern for themselves if he was worthy of their time and attention, would be comrades.

“No matter the tone or stance of opinion, every voice is welcome here,” Megatron said, announcing the statement not just to those from Vos, but the others gathered there. “You’ve all come because you have questions. Ask them, and I shall answer them. Let me be your friend before you see me as obsolete or mad, or even your leader.”

Where Megatron stood was desirable to the others and immediately they rose their voices in question. Their topics ranged from his upbringing, occupational opinions, to politics. He was judged by his countenance, the way he spoke, and his public position. Megatron did not mind and welcomed the upset and the disgusted, if they were willing to meet and to talk then so was he willing to see them and to reach out his hand in greeting and comradery.

While Megatron always paid close attention to the words that came out of his mouth—an attribute that was well taught under the tutelage of his conjunx—he was extremely cautious with what he said to the Senator in their midst. From simple introductions and civil inquiries he learned only a little about the seeker, like how he studied at Nova Point with an interest in the scientific field. How he came into politics was a mystery to unravel another time.

“I hope this meeting doesn’t put you in bad standing with your peers.” Megatron looked to Starscream from across the table they were seated at, observing every facial shift and posture. “I am well aware of the lengths they go through to keep their circle of sound mainframe.” There was no need to glance back toward Shockwave to know what the most elite would do to keep the status quo.

Starscream didn’t look phased by Megatron’s warning, which impressed the gladiatorial mech. “There is no comradery between you and I. I would worry more for yourself. New as I am, they make sure to remind me of their allies as well as their enemies.” He folded his arms, leaning back in his seat. “And I trust you know which category you fall under.”

Megatron nodded. “After hearing my plea, do you think it right?”

The other’s optics on Starscream were the ones that made him uncomfortable, not Megatron’s. “That . . . is yet to be determined.”

“Yet to be determined?” Ah, yes, good ole Lugnut; the mech never knew when to keep a proper peace. He was standing, his fists raised. “Our struggles have gone on for long enough! As ignorant as you play and look, no ‘bot is oblivious to this fractured society and the injustices plaguing our planet every day. It is Megatron who keeps us reminded, and he who keeps us sound and resolute. We grow because we online to this malevolence parading itself as normality. I ask you, foolish senator, when will you online to these atrocities?”

“At ease, Lugnut.” Megatron motioned the mech to be seated. As approving as he was of the gladiator’s spirits, Megatron did not want Starscream to see the more aggressive attitudes the Movement’s been adopting as of late. “We are not here to force anyone to take a side. We are simply here to talk and discuss opinions.” He nodded toward Starscream. “Of which even the Senator has a right to keep.”

Keeping wary optics on the more agitating mechs surrounding Megatron, Starscream shifted in his seat. “A rough crowd you tend to mingle yourself with. Another reason my peers reserve open judgement from you.”

“They are afraid of strength they can’t control.” This time it was Overlord, a more collected mech than Lugnut.

Starscream rolled his shoulder struts. “Naturally. Give them a reason, you know, and they won’t hesitate to label each and every one of you terrorists. Oh, and they have designations.” Starscream’s smile was wry, undaunted as he looked at the crowd, some of which seemed worried over this fact.

It was that discomfort that pushed Megatron to respond. “So what if they have our names. Let them know of the ones willing to make a stand and deny them. While I appreciate your willingness to come and listen, wherever you fall after this is of your own volition, we will stay, many will stay and stand. I have not changed my stance on this matter: Cybertron needs to change.”

Starscream chortled, leaning forward. “Do you plan on getting into politics?”

Megatron’s face was enough of an answer. “I don’t believe I am needed in that field.”

“If not from the top then how else do you plan to enact change?” Starscream waved to the mecha present. “I would hardly call this an army.”

“Because this isn’t an army.” Megatron’s frown set in. How many times did he have to reaffirm this? Just how many assumed this about the Movement? Just how many ‘bots fell into the lies of the mainstream?

“But they will have to be one day, won’t they?” Starscream smiled knowingly, looking into a future Megatron’s seen but refuses to acknowledge.

“I’m here! I’m here!”

Curious murmurs and turning optics looked toward the doors. In came a cloaked mech, tagged with a ‘bot who clearly had suffered from empurata. They were flustered, especially the cloaked one who came up to Megatron without a salute or form of honor. Instead he pulled his hood back, shaking his helm.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late, and believe me it wasn’t intended at all, but Damus and me got turned around so many times that—Primus, what kind of directions were those anyway?”

“About time you showed up, Ratchet!” Barricade was all grins, as were others who were familiar with the red and white mech. However, many—though unfamiliar with the medibot on personal levels—were familiar with his face.

Reaching out, Megatron took hold of one of the mech’s hands. His smile was gentle and content. “All that matters if that you’re here.” There was a short glance down at the way his fingers rubbed against the plating on red hands. “It’s dry.”

The medic chuckled. “Of course. I told you I’d come over once the layers set.”

“Is that . . .?”

“Junior Medical Officer Ratchet.” Shockwave’s optic zoned in. “At least that was what you were called before your titles were revoked.”

The smile Ratchet had mirrored from Megatron had fallen when he looked at accusing optics. Many of the ‘bots looked wary, more than ready to create distances from they and he. Naturally, he found protection from the Kaonians.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Barricade was one of many slamming fists down and taking a stand alongside the accused. “You’ve all come here to argue and agree with our planet’s decrepit state but fall for the same ruse everyone else has fallen for. They tell you the sky’s green, or that Luna 1 is plasma fizz and you all believe it.” He nodded toward Ratchet. “They’ve told you he’s killed and you faithfully follow their reasons. But I tell you this: I’ve never met such a devout, hard-working, honest medibot in my existence. He worked on us in the pits and they gave scrap for pay, and for what he got he only gave back with ingenuity and upgrade. And right now this _murderer_ runs a clinic, one that helps broken ‘bots for free. There’s nothing to be gained for him but a ‘bot that heeds his coding. Down here, we’ve all witnessed it first-hand while you see it in its edited glory from monitors and commenters. You want to let them form your thoughts, fine, go right ahead, but don’t think we’ll let any of you look at our medic like that or even downplay his name, not while you’re here in Kaon.”

“He’s just a victim of the many injustices running rampant across this forsaken planet,” Lugnut spoke up.

“He saved my brother’s life!” a small mech spoke up, this was Rumble. “I dun know if he did or didn’t kill a carrier and her litter but he saved my family, and for that he’s got my respect. Ain’t no one allowed to think otherwise of him while I’m here.” For added threat he transformed his arms into hydraulic hammers. For his stature, and the ones behind him, their stance was enough to quiet the room.

It was Shockwave who broke the silence. “And what might your opinion be on this matter, Megatron?” His optic glazed over the connection of hands.

Megatron’s holding hand squeezed. “I needn’t say much,” he replied. He glanced to the ones defending him, and Ratchet. To them he offered a commending smile. “The matters of the past are just that. Ratchet came here and was accepted. He’s more than proven himself; to the gladiators, to the desolate, and to me.” Entwining fingers, Megatron pulled Ratchet’s hand close to his chassis, ensuring that every optic saw the gesture. “I would kindly ask that no ill word be spoken of my conjunx.”

Another short silence followed after Megatron’s response, and once again it was Shockwave who broke it.

“The trial had its flaws.” Optics turned away from judging the medic toward Shockwave whose interest was piqued. “More than a few errors. And I believe that were I a part of the jury then your sentence wouldn’t have been so harsh.”

“You’re defending him?” Thundercracker and his compatriots looked surprised.

“I am reasoning with logic,” Shockwave informed. “There is more than one broadcast of the trial, and should any of you care to observe them you’ll find the inadequacy of coded law. There is a high possibility said trail and judgement was devised by those wishing to be rid of the medical officer. Now, seeing you with my own optic, I stand behind that reason.”

Thundercracker snorted, shaking his helm. “You can’t just deduce—”

“I wasn’t under the impression that this meeting was about me.” Optics turned toward Ratchet. He stood straighter, a pillar next to where Megatron sat. He was leaning forward, hands now placed on the table. And those that stood near him showed as much loyalty to him as they did to Megatron. Astounding. “You mechs traveled all this way to sizzle your thrusters, or did you come to speak your peace about the growing dissent?”

Even with the third bout of silence Shockwave broke it. “I can see why you’re so fond of him.” He looked toward Megatron with a nod. “But, one has to wonder if his plight spurs your involvement in this ideal.”

Squaring his shoulder struts, Megatron straightened his posture in his seat. “He is one of the many reasons I do this, yes.”

“Tread carefully then, Megaton. If the public were to see this then you will be looked on as a puppet, pulled by strings of revenge by a mad medibot.” Shockwave wasn’t oblivious to the upset faces surrounding Ratchet’s frame when he looked at the medic.

“What’d I say about speakin’ down on him?” Rumble looked ready to lunge for the ex-senator’s throat. He likely would have hadn’t it been for Overlord’s motion to step in front of him.

“I am well aware,” Megatron replied. “But before any of you doubt my involvement then let me assure you that Ratchet does not stand here as a supporter, but a voice of reason.”

Ratchet was nodding. “While I’ve known for some time about Megatron’s claim over the writings that began this, I still stand against many endeavors that I’ve seen and heard from those willing to get behind anti-functionism.”

“You know, I still don’t understand all that, doc.” Barricade turned to Ratchet, curiosity in his optics and posture. “You’re fraggin’ sparkmates for Primus’ sake and yet you still don’t want to come over?”

Ratchet sounded a sigh, looking at his friend. “I’m allowed to stand wherever the slag I may in this matter, and many of you know why I can’t jump onboard.” He looked toward the guests, giving them the same words he’s given the others. “If you’ve come here to start trouble then I don’t want you; Cybertron’s gone through enough, it shouldn’t have to endure more. While I expect that sort of programming from these brutes I hope to see some reason from Tarnians.”

Starscream’s laughter pierced the wary fields, and it struck more than a few central-nerves. “I’m thinking Shockwave was onto something. The way that medibot speaks . . .” He glanced toward Megatron. “You really are a puppet on his strings.”

A smile twitched on Megatron’s lip plates. Everyone saw the slight agitation wash over his features, but it was brushed away just as quickly. “A puppet, Senator? Far from it. Just a mech who admires every voice, even your own nonsensical one.”

The snickers ruffled the senator’s pressing dignity and he leaned forward, glaring at Ratchet for a moment before nodding to Megatron. “Then what is your opinion?”

Crossing his arms, Megatron raked his thoughts. “While I find myself at a wish to resist further harm, even I understand the necessity to make a stand.”

“Of which that stand doesn’t have to fall within violent lines.” Ratchet was shaking his helm. He turned to Megatron, to the voice at the forefront. “Don’t you see that if you try to hurt them they’ll just hurt you back, but the difference will be that they have the power to hurt you—and those you love.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Megatron’s optics were gentle when they gazed at the medic. It was easy to determine just how much he cared for the mech in that observed stare. “You already know that just speaking out against them caused us more grief than we were prepared for. Well, now we’re prepared and in that we must make a stand, many of them.”

Ratchet’s sigh sounded off the walls, echoing across intaking audio receivers. “I know, but I just want you to promise me . . .” He looked toward the others in the room as well. “All of you, that when the time comes you won’t be the ones to strike first.” There was inevitability in his gaze and it was then the others understood why the medic didn’t put himself completely along the lines of the Movement.

It was interesting, for those outside of a closer relation to Ratchet. Seeing him, hearing him give voice and opinion and reason changed many mainframe in the unit. All were aware of how much he’d lost and yet he continued to stand as the opposing figure against many an avid supporter’s plans for the future of the anti-functionist movement. More interesting was his opposition to even the likes of Megatron, despite their bonded status. But Megatron proved himself an interesting mech in that despite the differences presented before him, even from his closest, he heard them and considered it all.

The guests left that day with a sound opinion on the movement’s leader. Many a spark turned to him and his stance and ideals. And from these departing individuals he’d have more followers.

These were the meetings Megatron held up to the next season of his second touring.

“I appreciate you coming.” Megatron’s hand had reached out to take Ratchet’s before the mech moved too far away after the meeting was adjourned. The affection in his smile was solely reserved for the mech in his field. “It seemed like only a little while ago where you refused to even take part in these debates.”

Ratchet scoffed, rolling his optics. “You always paint me like some reluctant patriot.” He shook his helm but smiled. “Someone’s got to keep you in line.”

Megatron snickered. “You never did trust me with my words.”

“Yes, gone are the days when I could monitor your writings. This,” he laid his fingers over Megatron’s lip plates, contrary to popular belief, that was the most powerful part of the gladiator, “I can’t keep track of.”

Raising his hand, Megatron pulled Ratchet’s away, his thumb rubbing over twitching digits. “Know that every word I speak comes from thoughts of you. I wish you’d cease your worries.”

“You’ve wished that for some time.” Ratchet turned his gaze, looking at those who lingered. Damus was engaged in a conversation with Barricade—well, as much as one can be engaged when one doesn’t speak—and then there were the likes of Lugnut and Overlord, and Rumble and his brother Frenzy. The others there were nothing but old comrades, Kaon natives who were too proud of Megatron and his plights. “How long do you think it’ll last? How long do you think they can protect you?” He looked back toward Megatron. “You think they’d give their lives if it came to that?”

Megatron gave Ratchet a look before looking at the ‘bots standing near. “I won’t answer that, Ratchet, and you know why.”

“You’re leading them down a dangerous road,” Ratchet warned. It wasn’t the first time Megatron’s heard this warning.

“If they choose to follow me down that path then it will be their choice.” Megatron squeezed Ratchet’s hand, looking back to him. “They understand, as do I, but I want you to understand that no matter what I will do whatever is in my power to make sure you are never caught in the crossfire.”

Despite Megatron’s resolute words, no comfort formed within the medibot. Instead, his optics dimmed and his helm bowed, nodding subtly. “Don’t you realize that that’s what I want for you?”

Megatron’s smile returned. When he placed a hand against Ratchet’s chassis it felt as if something more than a spike in EM fields surged. “I suppose it can’t be helped.”

Ratchet didn’t want to chuckle after exchanging such words, but the laughter tumbled out, inevitably coming out of Megatron’s own vocals as well. “No, I guess it can’t.” A moment later, Ratchet took the time to vent, sighing before he nodded. “So, those were the guests from Tarn. An interesting lot. And Starscream was it? Primus help him, especially if he decides to get tangled with you.”

“His support would be ideal,” Megatron replied.

“Eh, I’m not so sure about his character.”

Megatron nodded. “You and me both.”

When Ratchet’s agreeing chortle turned into a full blown chuckle, Megatron rose a curious brow plate at the reaction. Shaking his helm, Ratchet tried to scoot away from the curious stare, but those red beams held fast.

“I’m sorry, but that must have perturbed you when he called you a puppet.” Ratchet chuckled again. The sheer visual of it created a giggle within his core, more so at the visage of a frustrated Megatron.

Rolling his shoulder rotators, Megatron leaned back in his seat, looking up at the white mech standing next to him. “Not really, because he wasn’t necessarily wrong.”

Now it was Ratchet’s turn to raise a brow plate. A fist on hip plates as he leaned in with a growing grin. “Oh?”

Megatron nodded, pulling the hand in his grasp to his lips. “I have no qualms being at the mercy of your strings.”

“Is that right?” Ratchet’s tone was curious, playful. “So then you wouldn’t mind being pulled,” at that he took a hold of Megatron’s hands and gave a tug, and Megatron stood at their behest, “back to the apartment?”

Megatron’s grin became just as sharp as Ratchet’s as his form loomed over the smaller. “Oh, you know I’ll never have any objections following you there.”

“Good.” Ratchet tugged him again, guiding his mate toward the exit, never minding the curious stares. “Because I think I promised a certain mech reparations for this lovely paint job.”

. . .

“Damn.” It was the fifteenth time Jazz spoke up, and it was the same word each time. Not that anyone else had anything better to say after being informed of what had just happened.

It was Thunderclash’s groan that turned everyone’s audio receptors away from Jazz’s downward descent. “You know, this case becomes a slag of a lot harder without a credible witness.”

“If anyone would know that, Thunderclash, it’d be Orion,” Prowl spoke up in defense of the one who took the weight and brunt of what all had transpired. Orion looked the most devastated, as if he had let everyone down. “There was nothing we could have done, Orion. Stop . . . don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Orion was quiet, a strange light in his optics, glazed over with regret and the after effects of horror. Despite everyone’s feelings in the matter, Orion Pax truly was the epitome of distraught.

“And just what are we going to do now?” Pharma rubbed his knee joints, digits curling over caps. “Just evidence alone won’t get us anywhere. Frag, if we even attempt to go in with what we have—no matter how incriminating—we’ll likely be the ones in trouble instead of the actual perpetrators.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Damn.”

“It was Proteus.” When Orion spoke again all optics were on him. His own were somewhere else, looking either into his own spark or at the ones that spurred his rising anger. “It was him, I know it.” Denta clenched and digits curled. His form began to shake. No one’s ever seen Orion this frustrated, no one’s ever witnessed him reach this point. “The bastard would kill his own employee just to . . . just to keep his damned secrets . . .” The light in Orion’s optics brightened and finally he was looking at the others, the fire behind that paneling was a frightening sight. “How deep do you think this goes? Do you think there were others he’s erased for the sake of his image? Do you?” He paused for a moment, coming to terms with everything he’s seen, heard, understood, and suspected. “Primus . . . he really did kill her, didn’t he? Her and the sparklings . . .” Greenlight, her friend, Turbo, and then there was Ratchet, all of them entwined with a political power who didn’t allow rejection. And more than a few paid the price for not seeing this soon enough.

“It’s quite obvious he was sending you a message,” Thunderclash said, his own fists clenched. If Senator Proteus dared try anything on Orion then Thunderclash wouldn’t at all be dissuaded from facing the crimes of a killer.

“The message was to all of us,” Orion insisted. “After that do you really think he hasn’t been watching us?” The silence unsettled them all, but not as much as the realization.

“Do you think . . .” Pharma paused, looking toward Jazz, knowing he would be in the best position to alleviate or clarify his worry. “Do you think he knows where Ratchet is?”

Jazz wasn’t the only one mulling over the possibility. “At this point, it wouldn’t be farfetched.” He shook his helm, groaning. “But, damn it, why? Why would he go through so much trouble just to disrupt our lives, _his_ life? Hasn’t he done enough?”

“You all don’t get it do you?” Gazes were back on Prowl. “You don’t get away with crossing the higher powers. And didn’t Proteus make it so Ratchet couldn’t escape even through death? No, he’s set this up from the beginning, and _this_ , this all is his beginning. He’s not done with this issue, and he’s likely not done with Ratchet.”

“We should tell Ratchet about all of this,” Pharma said, looking to Orion, hoping he would agree. “What if . . . what if something were to happen to him in Kaon?”

“He and Megatron seemed pretty close,” Jazz reasoned. “The mech’s a gladiator.”

“But he won’t always be there with him,” Pharma replied. “I read a little while ago that Megatron’s going to be touring again in about a few mega-cycles.”

“Maybe it’s about time I paid Ratch another visit,” Jazz said, bobbing his helm.

“No.” Jazz turned to Orion with a quizzical light in his visor.

“No?” The smaller mech questioned.

“How much do you suppose he knows?” Orion inquired. “Do you think he knows about Ratchet’s involvement?”

“Slag if any of us know,” Thunderclash bit out, just as frustrated as the others.

“I’m willing to believe he knows a part,” Orion suggested. “If not more than we think. Going to try and warn him will prove futile, especially if we, ourselves, are being tracked. And besides, I’ve seen the mechs that surround Ratchet, they are fierce and loyal, if not to Megatron then to Ratchet himself.” Sounding a sigh, Orion nodded reluctantly. “I want to believe he’ll be safe. For now we have to do what we can to keep what we’ve collected and secure anything more we possibly can. I will speak with Megatron about this and hear his take.”

“What do you suppose he’ll do?” Prowl questioned.

“I don’t know,” Orion replied. “But I feel he has a right to know, given that he cares for Ratchet just as much as we do.”

. . .

The time he had to recuperate before the second touring was in no way satisfactory, but Megatron left Kaon with added support from both district leaders and multiplying followers. This was also the first time he could claim departure from his luxurious dream home in Diagonal Tower, leaving being his very own confirmed conjunx endura as well. Those facts pressed him onward into this tour for the means to return as soon as possible to those things he’s worked so hard for.

After a brief stay in Iacon, Ratbat set the schedule and locations. The first city Megatron visited after was Vos, and it was there he moved under the scrutinizing optics of its senator. Starscream was present when Megatron took down the reigning champion, as displeased as he looked he still hailed for the revolutionary mech and with his employer’s permission, Megatron came to the Vosian senator’s estate.

It was evident that aerials clung in clusters. The majority of Starscream’s staff were of said make, not that any of it all unnerved Megatron.

“You really are something else in the arena.” Starscream came, the usual faces of Thundercracker and Skywarp floating nearby. “I’ve never seen anyone take down Sunblade as fast as you had. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone take down Sunblade period.”

“I’m in the business of dethroning champions.” Megatron smiled, glad that Starscream was nodding, offering his own commending smile.

“Dethroning, yes.” Starscream turned, waving for Megatron to follow him into the lounge room where refreshments were offered and servants waited. “What are your plans for Vos?”

They sat across from one another. Megatron relaxed only as much as the seeker did. And strangely enough, the mech looked uncomfortable, even surrounded by all of the comforts.

“First, I’m here to compete in the Vosian Gladiatorial Challenge. I believe in between those matches I’m to meet with the press for interviews as well as shoots—”

“I didn’t ask what Senator Ratbat’s plans are for you in Vos, I asked what _your_ plans are,” Starscream clarified. He sat up, leaning forward. “Do you plan on looking for supporters here? You want to find the holes where the desolate gather, the ones with nothing else to do but follow you?”

Megatron was politely quiet in Starscream’s accusations, and when the seeker shut his mouth to allow the other to speak, Megatron spoke. “I am here to speak. I am not here to look for anything but the spark of this city.”

“What do you think it’ll look like?” Starscream took up a glass of highgrade, offering another to Megatron via the waiting servant. Megatron took it up out of courtesy, but he wasn’t quick to down it like the seeker had been.

Rolling his shoulder rotators Megatron leaned forward, elbow joints rubbing against thigh plating. His gaze looked down at the liquid in his hand, and the way it swirled. “I have hope that it’s healthy and thriving. I carry this hope in every city I am fortunate to pass through.”

“And which were the ones that impressed you the most?”

Megatron looked back toward Starscream. “Unfortunately, none. Each and every one was diseased, rotting from the inside out. It’s just those standing on the crumbling shell were too caught up in fleeting luxuries to realize the cracks under their pedes.” He looked toward the servants, the home, and then back toward Starscream. The seeker was listening.

“And I’m sure Vos will fall in line with the others.” Starscream turned his gaze, his optics looking out of the windows to the gleams of the city they were surrounded by.

“I don’t wish it to be.” Megatron’s reply made Starscream snort and when the mech looked back toward him he saw the defeat in his optics.

“I’m not oblivious to the things beneath the surface,” Starscream assured, pushing his empty glass away. “So, what, does that make you the doctor?”

“Doctor?” Megatron smiled, shaking his head. “I am no such mech; haven’t quite got the hands for that.” Glancing down, Megatron looked at the black plating of his palms and digits. What once was hard working miners hands became violent in order to survive, and they were still the hands of a fighter.

“Oh?” Starscream smiled, leaning in. He was looking at Megatron, at something—someone—Megatron couldn’t properly see. Yet. “I think you do.”

“What is it you want, Senator?” Megatron saw a reluctant supporter, but there was more to it than what he could see on the seeker’s surface. Something he knew was too dangerous to peel back right then.

“What I want?” Starscream leaned back again, lounging and thinking. “I want the Senate gone.”

“Does that include yourself?” Megatron’s brow plate rose when he watched Starscream shrug, the question hanging further.

“Afts, all of them,” Starscream said. “Anything that comes through the Grand Imperium does little for Cybertron as a whole. It’s nauseating just to sit there and fill a seat. They want Vosian representative? No, they just want Vosian vote. They don’t care what the ‘bots do here so long as it doesn’t upset their teetering balance. Incompetence at its finest. Why, if we just did away with the Senate and the High Council entirely, perhaps it’d be an easier time.”

“You aren’t the first to lean toward this process pattern,” Megatron informed. “However, an entire planet and people under the rulership of one? I don’t think there is one mech capable of fulfilling such a role. Sentinel Prime? He might like the sound of it, but, let’s face it, he’d as soon shirk that duty upon more insignificant material than attempt the position. And . . .” Megatron scanned Starscream for a moment. He didn’t think he had trouble discerning his character. “I don’t think you’d be fond of the title either.”

Starscream only smiled to wash away the controversial thoughts he had before, and with a shrug he said, “It was a fun idea.”

“Now that I am here, is there anything you’d want of me?” Megatron could see the reluctance in Starscream’s posture, but he could also see the willingness to move and take him to use. Megatron would let him so long as his plans aligned with his own.

Starscream was quiet. More so he was struggling with himself. Megatron could see his mind. The seeker was cunning, but he didn’t know how to react toward his schemes, especially when they involved antagonistic notions against higher powers than even himself.

“I represent this city but they do not listen to me,” Starscream said. “Not that I blame them, but I don’t understand them like they want me to, like I wish I could.” He looked toward Megatron, there was hope in his optical paneling. “But you do. I want you to unite this city. I want you to take this city and others. Perhaps if you do then the damn Senate and Council will listen.”

Megatron shifted. “You would give this city to me?”

“It’s not really mine to give,” Starscream reasoned. “But if they follow you, I won’t stop you from taking it.” Starscream then pulled out a data pad, pulling up Megatron’s known bio, most in regards to his sports career. “And I am willing to sponsor you.” With a few types he added his name to Megatron’s roster and following that the amount he put toward him, a number rivaling Ratbat’s. “Perhaps when you find the gladiatorial life at odds with this new calling, you can rely on my services and funds.”

Megatron heard Starscream’s words and thought over them. The offer more than surprised the mech and he knew that Starscream had his own plots he wanted fulfilled, ones that had yet to be decided as dangerous or not, but at the moment he was willing to push them aside for this endeavor. There was wariness in this situation, one Megatron never shook, even as he departed from the Senator’s estate, but the opportunity was too right to deny.

As soon as evening snuck in Megatron moved to inform Ratbat of his departure into the city. Despite the time being Megatron's to do with as he will, the Senator stickled he be let known of the gladiator's off-duties plans so that if he found some form of need to fetch him he would know where to send his staff to search. As presumptuous as it was tedious, Megatron humored the Senator and followed his rules.

"Senator, I'll be downtown this evening." Megatron had passed through the mech's chamber doors and announced his evening plans, desiring to spend no more than a few kliks before turning on his bearing and leaving, but he stilled, something close to anger gripping him.

Senator Ratbat was certainly present within his Vosian quarters, as was his servant Soundwave. Not that it was unusual to witness the two in the same room, it was however not common to see the Senator's fingers up the outlier's valve—at least not for Megatron.

"Come on, just a sound," Megatron could hear Ratbat cooing against the shuddering mech. "I bet I can get one out of you before I'm done . . ."

"Senator." Megatron's vocals were louder, more blunt, ensuring attention was turned to him and his presence.

When Ratbat turned, he didn't at all look apologetic for the position he was found in. He only really straightened himself, pulling his hand away with a smile to greet his champion.

"Ah, Megatron, turning in for the evening?" He asked, not at all commenting on the way Megatron's optics held onto Soundwave's shaking frame. "Where will it be tonight?"

As expectant as Ratbat was for the answer, Megatron didn't reply in usual time. Instead he let himself fall into a thought, one he hoped would prove fruitful.

"I am," he said. "But the matches earlier have worn me more than I realized."

"Well then you get your recharge. There are early matches tomorrow. I expect you to be at your prime as usual."

Megatron nodded, still lingering.

Ratbat rose a brow plate. "Is there anything else you require of me, Megatron?"

"Actually . . ." Megatron finally met Ratbat's optical gaze. "There is. Lately, I've been stressed. Whether it's from my exertion in the arena or the mayhem of the rallies. I am currently in need of alleviation."

At that the Senator's optics brightened and his lip plates curled, sharper than normal. He came close to Megatron, reached out and nudged him. "What'd I tell ya, huh? It was only a matter of time before you came around. So, what'll it be? You want me to order up a catalog?"

Shaking his helm, Megatron pursed his lips. "I don't want it to take long, besides," he nodded toward Soundwave, "Don't you have resources to spare for the time being?"

It took a moment of back glances before Ratbat caught onto Megatron's meaning. A shine of recognition phased over the Senator's optics as his helm nodded. "Aah, right, right. You're most certainly right." Turning he motioned for Soundwave. The mech stood still for but a moment, faceless visor roaming from the Senator to the Gladiator. When he moved he came obediently, helm bowed in submission.

"You take good care of him." For a moment Megatron believed Ratbat was speaking to him, but it didn't take long to understand that tone was used solely for Soundwave.

With a quick nod, Soundwave moved out of the room, Megatron expected to follow.

"You tell me if he makes a sound. Been trying to get something out of him for stellar cycles." Ratbat chuckled, his optics winking lights. "Good luck."

The walk back to Megatron's designated room was unsettling. Soundwave hadn't uttered a word, but neither had Megatron. Once inside with the door locked Megatron watched the dark mech move toward the berth. He stood there, valve still open, as if he were ready for the order to lay down on his hands and knee caps.

"No." When Megatron spoke he felt his tone, it rattled his chassis and tempted his core. He was upset. He hadn't let himself fall in this deep in a long time. "No, I don't want that."

Even despite the face mask, Megatron could see, could feel Soundwave's surprise. And that only made him further livid. "No," he said again, coming closer with a hand stretched out in civility. "I would never ask anything such as this from you." When Soundwave bowed his helm, Megatron could feel the questions in his field. But he had questions of his own. "Does he . . . how long has Ratbat . . .?"

Soundwave looked at him, responding to him as his field reached out to hand Megatron the answer. Megatron's frown persisted if not deepened.

"Why do you let him?" When Soundwave answered, Megatron nodded. Understanding. "But is a beggar's life so much lower than dignity?" Soundwave bowed his helm. His panels clicked shut, and Megatron felt his shame. "I do not accuse you for the things you felt you needed to do to survive. From what I saw you didn't agree with your submission to those standards either."

Megatron approached cautiously. When he reached out and laid hands on the mech's shoulder plates Soundwave shifted only to look up to him. Even as Megatron's own face reflected off the mech's visor, he saw through it, to the most frightened of faces.

"No more." Megatron was shaking his helm, even giving Soundwave a shake for measure. "Lower yourself no more. You are no different from me, from the Senator, or any other Cybertronian just because of the circumstances of birth. You have a right to yourself first, and to your own aspirations. If others try to force you to comply to their whims don't be afraid to deny them and lose their respect. From them, they can give you nothing of worth. There are those in the gutters far more valuable than those in these shining piers of trash."

Hidden optics shown on Megatron. Admiration, inspiration, confirmation, they all boiled within the depths of Soundwave's field, buried underneath the layers of his own self-disgust.

"You know," Megatron moved his hands away, letting Soundwave have the space he needed, but he did not retract his field, "There was a mech I knew, who came into the same position you were, but instead of capitulating he resisted."

 _'What happened to him?_ ' Megatron felt Soundwave's field inquire.

"He was ostracized, stripped of his job and kicked out from his very home," Megatron replied.

At that statement Megatron watched an image run across the mech's visor, one of Ratchet, shaking and in anguish, as he stood accepting his sentence. Megatron nodded and Soundwave understood.

"I was there to witness his struggles, but he persevered and I was impressed by that. An Iaconian, privileged and well-bred; held onto his pride even when the higher powers wanted to stomp on ever bit he had. A mech of my upbringing and position, who was I to believe in such?" Megatron's smile was fond, feeling absolutely blessed by Primus, himself, for getting the chance to meet someone like Ratchet, someone who would change his view on those higher born. Looking back toward Soundwave he nodded. "If he could do that then I have no doubt you, yourself, can. You just have to let go of your fear, and if you need something to hold onto when you do then hold onto me and I tell you I will try my damnedest to anchor you through those rough waters."

There was hope now to be felt in Soundwave's field. Megatron could feel the gaze of those hidden optics, and they looked at him as the savior.

The next day Senator Ratbat was in a mood. He was more stressed than Megatron usually ever saw him, at least he was more concealed if anything. Not today however.

"I can't believe he did this to me, to me." Ratbat was pacing, moaning while Megatron selected his armament for the match he was about to partake in.

"Is there something wrong, Senator?" Megatron had his suspicions, but he still enjoyed clarifying his assumptions.

"Yes, there very damn well is!" Well now, Megatron's never heard such heated tones like that from the mech. "It was Soundwave, that infernal 'bot just up and left. He quit. Quit! After all I've done for him he does that to me." Ratbat huffed, shaking his helm, irritation and frustration engrained in his features.

"That seems quite unfortunate for you." Megatron enjoyed watching the Senator squirm. He knew Soundwave would be more than pleased to hear about this meltdown in detail.

"It is." Ratbat huffed again, looking at Megatron with heated optics. "That mech was an outlier, no one wanted to hire him. You know where I found him after Shockwave's mockery of an academy? In the gutters, next to the other disposables. I should have left the ingrate there. Primus! Didn't he realize how valuable that ability of his was to me? Gah!"

"Well, it certainly sounds as if you made it clear how important he was to you." Megatron watched Ratbat with fiery optics, watching as the mech slammed Soundwave's name only because of the wasted ability that was abhorred in Cybertronian society but admired when found useful to his personal gain.

"Damn, damn it all!" Ratbat moaned his whines.  "You don't get that often, Megatron. Damn, what I was going to do with that ability. Gah, dammit, what a waste. I should have kept a tighter leash on the bastard."

"Oh, I don't think that would have kept him either," Megatron replied, a knowing look whirling in the light of his optics as he stood and marched off to meet his opponent.

It was five quartex's later that Megatron followed Soundwave's lead.

He was in Polyhex. After four rounds of a dozen opponents he came out victorious. The crowds raved, their combined noise disrupting any proper frequency as Megatron raised his arms to them. Finally, he spoke.

"How much longer must we meet under these circumstances? By now you know who I am. Am I Megatron, lord of the gladiatorial rings, or am I Megatron, one who will not fall into societal function and one who stands against to those opposing our dreams and our rights?" He looked to the crowds just as much as he looked toward the cameras, for those listening and tuning in. "I came to you so that you may see for yourselves which you prefer to view me as. And for a time I stood as still for long enough. Now, now this will be the last for many of you. I make my way from these arenas drenched in energon and pieces of my brothers, from these cameras, from these crowds. If any of you wish to seek out me know that I will be in your cities among the 'bots who will stand with me to change what I, myself, cannot do alone. My invitation will always be open to you and the ones listening. Come find me and come alongside me. At this I bid farewell to my gladiatorial career and take my leave."

That put Senator Ratbat into another fit, but it was the likes of Senator Starscream who only threw his helm back with a laugh.

. . .

Ratchet had to close the clinic down early after the news. The mood that fell over him prohibited his ability to work out repairs, but no one scolded him for the close down, not his patients, and certainly not Damus. It was actually Damus who was serving the medibot a much needed cube of mild energon to sedate his troubled circuitry.

"Was it really going to come to this?" That was the third time Ratchet's question bounced across the empty walls of his clinic. He stared at the offered cube, Damus was quiet beside him, his presence a comfort even in his troubled state.

The answer to that repetitive question always came back the same: _yes, yes it was_. And Ratchet knew this. He knew it since the moment Megatron came out and claimed ownership of his writings. Even still, what troubled him was the uncertainty he was facing unintentionally alongside Megatron and his movement.

The turbulence was only going to get worse from here.

And there was fear, naturally, fright in that Megatron was going against something over his helm. Not that Ratchet hasn't witnessed the steadfastness of his supporters, it was just he doubted the higher powers would go down without a fight. Pits, he can't recollect any part of their history where that scenario has taken place. Of course there was always a first for everything, but if you asked Ratchet if he believed it to be this case he'd tell you, "no."

Call him a doubter, a naysayer, whatever one willed, but Ratchet's felt that unjust hand and remembers its sting, something he wouldn't wish on anyone, especially those he cares deeply for. And right now, he knew Megatron was rising the ranks in said powers' radar.

The sigh sounded after mixed with a groan, one of reluctant acceptance.

"Nothing I can do about it I suppose." Leaning up, Ratchet glared at his drink. A chuckle fumbled out of him afterward. "I think I'm going to need something stronger than that right now."

He turned his optics toward Damus then, the mech looking at him with curiosity swirling in his optic.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You know very well how I feel about this all." Ratchet drummed his fingers against the table, glaring still at his untouched drink. "After all I've been through, it's only natural to not want others to go through the same." He looked back at Damus. "Even given your situation, there's always something worse."

"Yeah, but, don't you think Megatron will be the one to actually do it?"

Ratchet paused, optics wide, bright, and jaw hinges loose. Damus just . . . the mech just spoke.

"You talked." Ratchet was to his pedes, coming closer, doctoral instinct dictating that he examine the perfectly good vocal synthesizers again. "Damus, you . . ." He leaned back, hands on shoulder plates. "Why didn't you speak up sooner?"

Damus nodded his helm until he looked downward. For a moment Ratchet thought he may not talk again, but as that blue optic looked back at him, the young mech spoke again. "Because I didn't know what to say, or how to say it."

Ratchet's smile was wide, full of pride. "Maybe it was just the subject, huh?" Patting his helm, Ratchet moved back, taking his previous seat. He still didn't touch his energon. "You believe in him that much, don't you?"

Damus nodded, vigorously. "I do. After all this time I don't doubt anything he says and I've more than seen others with just as much belief, it's just . . . well . . ."

Ratchet was in the process of forcing himself to take hold of the midgrade, but paused when he noticed Damus quieting. "Don't you dare fall back into silence on me."

"Well, I just, I don't know, it's that I don't understand why you of all 'bots don't believe in him when, well, you're his mate, I mean his conjunx." Damus looked more than worried for voicing his honest opinion to Megatron's own conjunx endura, but Ratchet looked at him with a light in his optics and smile on his lips that informed him he wasn't offended by the response.

Shaking his helm Ratchet vented lightly. "No, it's not that I don't believe in him, I do, I very much do."

"Then why—?"

"It's because I don't believe in our government," Ratchet clarified. How many times had he gone over this caution with Megatron? Now it was to be the same with Damus. "I know what they've done to previous trysts that started out like this, and in that I know what they can do to Megatron and those that follow him." He looked at Damus. "After all you've been through, are you sure you want their ire?"

Damus was quiet in his processing, but with his nod and the gleam in his cerulean optic Ratchet saw the devotion. "I would, because I know this is what's right."

Ratchet nodded, in silence taking in everything Damus was saying and implying. His youthful exuberance reminded him of Megatron when he'd first met him, not that Megatron has lost any such passion, it's just that he was better kept now, more refined. Damus spoke and moved too eagerly, and after all the time it took to coax Megatron into a patient stance, Ratchet saw the call to do so again with Damus.

"Well, we'll both know how everything blows over or blows up." Ratchet patted the table, beckoning for Damus to take the seat next to his. "Right from the clinic." He saw the disappointed look in Damus' optic. "Don't give me that look, you've got a job to do as do I, both of which involve our afts being in here." He waved for him again. "Come, I need a drinking partner."

For now Ratchet had the younger mech on a leash, and he was willing to do all he could to keep him chained because he knew he was in no way ready to take part in the matters to come. Those were for sterner 'bots, unfortunately one of those sterner 'bots was Megatron himself.

Hhh, frag his life; he just had to fall in love with a revolutionist.

On upside of Megatron's decision to make revolution his full-time occupation, the hours were negotiable and flexible. He came back to Kaon quicker than the gaming tours would have let him. But slag it all if he thought he was getting a welcoming kiss from his doctor.

"I thought you'd give me that face." Despite Ratchet's best scowl, Megatron was grinning like he'd just been elected the new Prime. There he was, waltzing into their home, into Ratchet's office like there wasn't a single issue to be had. Ratchet was ready to remind him otherwise.

"Your perception is at least nimble in that department." Ratchet turned back to the project he'd brought home from the clinic, the one he'd been working on longer than he should have been. "I can't expect your sponsors were very kind when you decided to break their contracts."

"Of course not." Megatron replied with a snicker. "But you should have seen Ratbat, the slagger's face was priceless."

Ratchet hummed, nodding and continuing his best to ignore Megatron's presence. It wasn’t necessarily easy given he could feel his spark surging, moving against his spark chamber as if it were trying to pry open the hinges by itself, an attempt to leap out to its mate. That was the harder part to ignore.

"So, tell me, how does the revolution pay?" Ratchet was subtly shaking his helm, knowing after Megatron's departure from the games and the loss of his sponsors, he'd have to return to the pits to work as a backup medic, or else his clinic wouldn't be able to remain open for much longer.

Ratchet made a small noise when Megatron took the arms of his chair and twirled him, moving him away from his work and turning him full frame to him. There, Megatron knelt, his hands rubbing thigh plates affectionately, and that smile on his face informed the medibot not to worry.

"Quite well, actually." He leans in, his optics bright, expectant and excited. "They're giving, Ratchet. Those that have come are giving to the cause, to me."

"How long is that going to last?" Ratchet; always the pessimistic.

"For as long as we are strong." Those hands began to move again, digits deliberately dipping between, rubbing the inward plates. "One such supporter is Starscream."

"The new senator?" Ratchet cocked his helm. "Is he mad?"

Megatron shrugged. "He remains anonymous, as do most of his intentions, but we shouldn't worry about him, not when there are thousands upon thousands pouring in from the cities and towns and villages just to meet me. Oh, Ratchet, you should see them. Mechs and femmes, 'bots of different makes and molds and backgrounds come to hear me and to pledge support. I know now this is what I was meant to do. By Primus, it was the right thing for me to do."

Ratchet remained silent, nodding to let the other know he was still listening, still following where he led.

"So then, what do you plan to do next?" Ratchet wanted to know so at least he'd be prepared.

"We march," Megatron replied. "The 'bots I've met already showed me their readiness. And whether or not our government is, we will take our cries to them."

Nodding, Ratchet couldn't stop the sinking feeling seeping out into his field. It was too late to retract or mask it. But Megatron took its presence with experience.

"You worry more than you should, Ratchet." Those devious fingers moved away from intimate paneling and retreated toward his knee caps, circling in comfort. "We are a hardy bunch, even the smallest. Sentinel and all his Guard couldn't frighten us."

"Just promise me that you'll be cautious, and mind the laws, no matter how ridiculous. Protest all you want just don't hurt anyone, and . . . and don't let them hurt you."

"You have my word," Megatron assured for what felt like the millionth time. His hand moved, taking Ratchet's. "Will you join us?"

Ratchet wondered if Megatron was asking him to become a part of the movement or if he was asking for his presence. He's been asked both many times before and each time he's given different answers. Even in all of that, Ratchet couldn't help but feel he was implying both subjects in his questioning. Both he was still so afraid to answer.

"I don't think it'd be a good idea." He pulled his hand away and turned back toward his desk and the pending project. And it wouldn't be. Their first march shouldn't be marred with the image of a sparkling killer. Ratchet didn't want to do that to Megatron and the others. "Maybe sometime later."

Picking up his needle weld, Ratchet tried to get back to work, but working on the project and working on denying the ache in his spark was two very struggling tasks.

"What are you working on?" The fact Megatron didn't make more of a fuss over the refusal was a little surprising, but the fact that he was leaning over him then, interested in Ratchet's project was more so. Ratchet completely forget he never told Megatron about it.

"Oh, it's for Damus." Ratchet looked back at Megatron whose optics scanned over the three pieces. "I should have had them done sooner, but . . . no, I have nothing and no one to blame but myself. I'm nearly done with them, figured he more than earned these."

"Servos." Megatron's digits brushed against the two hands, both done and polished and flexible. "And a helm." The last piece Ratchet had been working on, the face he was hoping Damus wouldn't mind wearing. One with an olfactory sensor, lip plates, and intake, and two optics. "You've really outdone yourself this time. Damus will be more than surprised."

"I hope he'll like them." Ratchet put down the weld, giving his work a lookover. He still wasn't done with the mouth.

"I think he'll love them. With as much time and energy you put into it, he'd better." Megatron chuckled, purposely leaning closer just to feel Ratchet. And there was Ratchet, leaning back into that hulking frame.

"About Damus . . . you know how much he admires you?"

Megatron shrugged. "I can sense his attention during the talks. I've assumed that much."

"Yeah, well, he certainly gave me a piece of his mainframe in concerns to your recent actions." Ratchet looked up, watching Megatron's features.

"And what did he think?"

"He _told_ me that he believes you're doing the right thing," Ratchet replied.

"He spoke?" Megatron clucked. "Well, how about that."

"Yeah, he spoke of nothing but the movement," Ratchet informed. "It doesn't take half a motherboard chip to understand where he stands."

"And what's your take on that matter?"

Ratchet was quiet for but a moment. Quiet in his loud thoughts. "I don't want to give him the replacements only for him to gallivant off and just ruin himself all over again."

"Is that what you think I'm going to do?"

Ratchet wasn't going to pretend Megatron didn't feel his reluctance in that question, nor the way his frame stiffened.

"Well, no, not necessarily."

"But Damus would?"

"Yes and no." Ratchet groaned, twisting to look back at his mate. "Stop trying to trap me, you bastard."

Megatron only looked amused by the medibot's reaction. He nodded toward Ratchet's project, a peace and acceptance about him that Ratchet's been struggling to find since he ended up in Kaon. "Finish those for him. If he wants to take part in the movement then let him be free to do so. I know that even you aren't opposed to allowing that."

"I'm not," Ratchet defended.

"You care for him, I understand." Megatron nodded, tapping his own chassis and then rapping his knuckle joints down Ratchet's. "And I care for every single spark standing with me. I promise you that I will personally ensure Damus is well behind the safer lines should he come join our ranks."

Eventually Ratchet had no choice but to nod. "Fine, but you better keep your word, all of them."

Megatron leaned in, pressing his lips to the mech's. "When have I not?"

. . .

The first official march was in Kaon. The turnout was so large and successful that the populaces from nearby settlements mirrored, each calling to invite the influential leader who took to falling from societal grace only to rise up in the optics of the people. Donations and pledges of loyalty poured in, sustaining Megatron’s position and the longevity of his blossoming revolution. Where he went, those of kindred spark met him, and now Kaon was overrun with these like-processored ‘bots.

The audience he had built through the stellar cycles had paved the way to the crowds that met him in each city. Most of Cybertron’s southern boundaries hailed Megatron’s designation and the cause of which he represented. Unrest stirred and frustration from those holding the highest seats, many of which were already conforming to the movement’s whims if only to keep the unsettling peace.

Megatron and his denizens upheld code and law of each sector they appeared in. The only trouble they brought with them was differing opinion and their strong stance for the need for change. There were policebots, there were squadrons of the Guard present during each stay, observing and on call. But there was nothing provoked except for the pride of the powerful.

It was when the Movement began marching north that thicker opposition was met. Barring, and threats passed on more than subtle warning. Even in cities with the majority of the populace pledging support, Megatron and his followers were stopped at the entrance.

Not all northern cities refused him entrance, but the antagonistic tension was heavier and more pressing than anything Megatron and his mecha had encountered in the south. Some of the most welcoming northern cities was of course Tarn and, oddly enough, Iacon. It was there in Iacon that Megatron felt the weighted glares of equally enemies and friends.

“I expected a completely different crowd,” Jazz mused as he and Orion maneuvered around enthusiastic crowds all lined up alongside the roads to be the ones to cheer on the passing marchers.

Orion too scanned his optics along the energetic faces. “You’re in the wrong sector for the usual Iaconian welcome.” No, those ‘bots were just low enough in the caste system to understand Megatron’s words and actions. Any higher and the crowds would sneer and growl at the revolutionary show.

“Still, it’s pretty impressive.” Jazz glanced up toward Orion. “With this much support, do you think he stands a chance?”

Orion was silent and actually left the question hanging. It had been one of his own for some time, one he thought of asking the actual source, but he knew even the likes of Megatron would fall short when referring to an uncertain future, especially one that could only be met by breaking and remolding. Instead he stood and observed, took in the volume of the gathered crowds, the presence of legions of Guards, and any other high ranking officials possibly concealing themselves within the wide-opticed masses.

“Megatron! Megatron!” The crowd cried. Orion could also hear, “Cogs no more! Cogs no more!” Among other chants and the volumes only intensified when the ‘bots came down the road, arms hooked as they marched in unison. Megatron stood at the forefront, a figure the entire planet was becoming too familiar with.

As he passed, those red optics glanced over and took sight of Orion and Jazz. Megatron inclined his head in recognition, his field reached out and brushed against them as fellows. He passed on too quickly for Orion or Jazz to form any proper response, but the both of them kept close optics on the formation and wash of the march. Thankfully, there was no inciting incident.

“Huh, I expected that to end differently.” Orion didn’t need to ask Jazz to elaborate in order understand the meaning behind his statement.

With a nod, Orion replied, “We’re both pleasantly disappointed.”

Despite the enthused welcoming from a good portion of the city, Orion wasn’t blind to the wary fields scattered along the crowds. More than once he met gazes with questioning optics, skeptical and worried. This worry didn’t stem from the pushing change, but at the cost that would be demanded from it. It was that understanding that pushed Orion further, Jazz on his heels as he moved into the thick of Megatron’s followers.

There was no surprise that they were met with heavy security.

“What do you want?” From the looks of their frames, three of the mechs were former gladiators. A reasonable select for such duties. The fourth was of slimmer make, dark, silent, wearing a mask to conceal his face, but his posture and stance didn’t make him any less threatening than the other three.

“Chill, guys, we’re here to see the boss.” Jazz rose his hands in defense. A quick glance toward Orion questioned their own intentions before looking back at the glaring ‘bots.

“You and the entire city.” One chuckled, keeping his stance clear that he and the others were not going to move.

Jazz once more glanced toward Orion for their next phase of action, but before Orion had any time to rake through a route they heard a voice carry over toward them.

“How many times have I told you to stop that?” Megatron was pushing past the larger three, stopping to stand next to the fourth, looking at them with a deepening frown. He glanced toward Orion and Jazz, the frustrated glint in his optics dissipating for a short moment before turning back to his security guards. “I don’t care if it’s the damn Guard itself, if they want to come to speak with me, let them. I can more than handle myself.” He turned once more toward the two familiar faces, a smile forming. “Especially with these two.” Raising his hands he patted them, leaning in closer. “My friends, how fares life?”

“As fair as it’ll be,” Jazz replied, his knuckles drumming against Megatron’s arm. “What about you? You went incognito for some time after you announced your retirement from the Games and then BAM, next time we see ya you’re leading marches in the south.”

Megatron nodded. “I felt it was time.” He jutted toward the surrounding chattering crowds. “And they served to convince me.”

“Livin’ the life.” Jazz’s smile was supportive, but as he crossed his arms and shifted his posture the stance spoke more of a critical attitude. “And how’s it been so far?”

“As much as I expected,” Megatron replied.

“We heard about the barring.” Orion spoke up, optics focused, watching for the things Megatron wouldn’t outwardly speak right then. “I can see that none of that discouraged your goals, but I wonder how you’re taking it.”

“In stride.” Megatron said while shifting his jaw in thought. “Perhaps one day those cities will be more open to more diverse voices.”

Orion nodded along, wanting to be hopeful but remaining realistic to the fact that Megatron’s journey was far from over. As was their own.

“What do you say about Iacon?” Jazz spoke up again. “I admit I was one who thought they’d deny you entrance the moment they saw you and your entourage.”

“We think alike, Jazz.” Megatron smiled, a proud one as he glanced at the golden city. “I’m glad to have been proven wrong, and know that even this grand metropolis where the highest powers sit will look and listen. For now, that is.” He shared a short chuckle with Jazz before Orion moved their tones back to the seriousness of the situation.

“I want you to be careful while you stay here.” Orion made it clear with the lighting in his optics and pitch of his vocal frequency. Megatron was savvy to his stress and gave more than his audio receivers. “This city isn’t as open as you assume. These optics aren’t just looking at you as the revolutionist that you’re rising up to be.”

“I completely understand,” Megatron announced, he motioned to his fellows, the mecha from his gladiatorial days. “As do they.”

Orion sounded a sigh, shaking his helm. He leaned closer, his tone soft but heavy. “I don’t mean to downplay anything you feel necessary, but I can’t stress enough how much you need to take as much caution with your actions and words from in, around, or even outside the city. There have been recent happenings that have set us on edge, worrying not only over our standing and safety, but for yours and Ratchet’s as well.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed in suspicion and severity. “Just what has transpired to set you all on edge?”

Orion shifted. “You know we’ve been looking into Ratchet’s case since he was banished from the city. Each of us, all taking time out of our sect duties to dig into the parts overlooked and tossed away.” Orion paused for a moment, making certain his frequency was low enough for both he and Megatron, he knew Iacon and he knew how well it listened. “I found a ‘bot willing to testify on Ratchet’s innocence. He told me of everything Senator Proteus had done and how he placed every crime on Ratchet, and then he swore to come before the court along with the evidence we gathered.” Orion could still see the broken road, cracked and splintered under the weight of a fallen frame. “He fell from a tower a quartex ago. It was labeled a suicide.”

Megatron was quiet for some time, taking in everything Orion had just informed him, processing it and calculating his response. “That is most unfortunate, but I wonder if it was that ‘bots sentence for speaking or if it was a warning to those he spoke to.”

Orion Pax saw Megatron’s deeper understanding, the conclusion of which was what was troubling him.

“There’s no need to fret over us, we do enough of that,” Orion spoke up. In truth he and the others had never looked over their back sides so often after that. “But if there was one thing I was taught over that tragedy it’s that those high seats keep a tight hold of those covers, and with no chance of that grip loosening. So, I can only conclude that they track any means necessary; significant and the often seen insignificant.”

Orion struggled with what to say next. He struggled because he, Jazz, Thunderclash, Pharma, and even Prowl had worked so damn hard to locate, pull out, and secure the evidence that had been so seemingly, carelessly discarded, gotten to know and annoyed the frag out of once-questioned witnesses as well as the jurors, given up proper recharge and leave, risking their wellbeing and occupations for the sake of loyalty and the love of a friend. They did all of that in the hopes of getting Ratchet back, in the hopes of fighting for that chance to hold him in their arms again. They were his closest friends, it was their duties, but presently they were failing, and it stung so much to admit.

“Megatron do you . . . is . . .” Orion shook his helm, moving his perceived duties away to look at Megatron with pleading optics. “I need to know if Ratchet will be kept safe.” Because he knew Proteus was watching, searching for any who dared cross him. Ratchet had once and he paid the price, but right then Orion was certain Proteus hadn’t let him go so easily, at least not without knowing where he moved. And now with Megatron’s new calling, Orion more than understood the positon he was putting Ratchet in.

Orion watched Megatron’s optics glow. There was a fire in them, one to defend, and Orion didn’t doubt that he would and will do everything within his power to do this, he just wasn’t certain if he’d be able to actually accomplish it in the end.

“He will be,” Megatron assured. There was a deep rumbling emitting from his chassis, his words more than a promise. “I know that being his friends for so long, you’re not used to trusting others with him, but I ask that you trust me.”

Orion had to. He was all that they had to ensure their dear friend’s safety, and, unfortunately, Orion knew it would be much harder now for Megatron than it was for them.

. . .

Out of all the sectors and sublevels on Cybertron it happened in Praxus.

It hadn’t even been a full stellar cycle before damage was wrought. And it was wrought in the form of an explosion, one that just so happened to occur during a rally in the city. It was summed up to faulty and outdated power convert tubing. But that detail wasn’t prominent at the moment, not when there were injured ‘bots lying around from both sides—no signaled fatalities—but the radius did happen near where Megatron had been standing.

That was all Ratchet needed to know to drop his tools and leave the clinic and his patients.

Damus had been the one watching the moment the explosion shocked the gathered crowds. It was a weak discharge, but to those closest to it, one could only imagine the actual damage it might have done. Before he could even turn away from the monitor he heard Ratchet drop the saw he had been stabilizing whilst shaving away rust from a patient. And then Ratchet was standing next to him, frame stiff and taut as wide optics gawked at the angle the camerabots were showing.

“Ratchet?” Damus had taken one glance at the doctor before he realized he was moving, dashing through the front door, leaving behind expectant and very confused patients.

Being the only ‘bot left without much confusion, Damus moved to patch up the remaining patients, escort them out and close the clinic.

Ratchet had taken the fastest transport to Praxus that shanix could buy. The wait had nearly killed him and half way there he simply wanted to jump out of the window and drive the rest of the way, but he was no speedbot, and that fact churned his inner circuitry in the most painful of manners. However, the very klik he pulled into station Ratchet was the first out of the transport doors.

In his race to find Megatron, Ratchet had left many necessities, of which he would curse himself for later when the rush of hard worrying fright left his systems. Some of those necessities included a full array of medical tools—Ratchet only possessing the barest minimum of them in his subspace—and of course his cloak, not that he had time to remember how Praxus treated him in the early days of his banishment, nor the recognizing stares from the ‘bots he passed by whilst he fought into the shifting crowds.

By the time Ratchet had reached the scene of the occurrence the spot had been sealed off and the possible injured carted off to the hospitals. No other commotion seemed to garner any more attention. The city brushed it all off as a simple common disturbance. Perhaps that’s what it had been or painted to be, but Ratchet still couldn’t find the one he was there for.

“Megatron? Excuse me, have you seen Megatron?” Ratchet was tugging on ‘bots, calling to their attention, but each response he got was shaking helms and more than surprised stares at him. That was when he noticed how bare he was.

While living in his own panic, he did not want to cause another and so had no choice but to retreat to the wayside. Frantic as ever, he was about to drive himself insane, torn over needing to find a covering while his spark churned inside him to search out its mate.

That was when someone touched him.

Twisting himself around, wide optics met the reflection of himself in the pane of a visor. It took Ratchet a moment to remember this mech he’d met briefly before. Sound Drive was it? No, that didn’t sound right. It was Soundwave, right?

The mech didn’t say a word, instead he motioned for Ratchet to follow his lead, signaling him to remain close so that his frame would shield the doctor from passing stares as much as possible. It was then Soundwave led him to a lodging unit, one filled with many of the Megatron’s closer supporters.

In that unit sat Megatron, speaking to the others. There was likely words of steadfastness and encouragement to shake off the startle of the day, but Ratchet was deaf to any of those likelihoods. Instead he could only focus on the sight of cracks and chips dotted along Megatron's forearm plating, ones that hadn't been there when he'd left Kaon.

His presence turned helms, surprised lights flittered along optical paneling, especially Megatron's. The mech looked like he was about to say something but Ratchet moved quicker and was wrapping his arms around his conjunx before anything further was spoken.

"Primus!" Ratchet rubbed his face plating into Megatron's chassis, all too thankful to feel his returning embrace and those gliding hands along his backing. "I saw what happened and thought the worst!" When he looked up Megatron wore a comforting smile. Gentle purrs shook his structure, vibrating straight through his torso to coax Ratchet into a calmer state.

"Of course you would." Even given the teasing response, Megatron's tone was patient and gentle. "But there's no need to fret. There was no serious harm."

No serious harm? Ratchet glared. "Two were carted to the hospital."

Megatron made the motion to roll his optics, all of which perturbed his conjunx. "Only because they made enough of a fuss to usher in the paramedics."

"Yeah?" Ratchet leaned away, taking hold of Megatron's arm and inspecting the damage. "What about this?"

Megatron shrugged, of course he would. "I've had worse, and you know I have."

Ratchet didn't say anything, simply held his glare and fought to reign his fluctuating spark back in check. One way to accomplish that was by examination, a decent and proper one. So Ratchet took out the tools he had and began sanding away at the arm plating. He was quiet while he did so and Megatron made no complaint about it. In fact, he caught onto the medibot's inner turmoil quick enough and waved his audience out of the room.

With less fields to keep track of Ratchet was still internally conflicted, not with the way Megatron's EM reached out to caress his own but with himself and his ever present fright, especially of the one telling him how dangerous it all could have really been, how he might not have gotten the chance to feel that affectionate field brushing against his own again, or embellish himself within the perimeter of that embrace that wound around him then, or felt the scarlet beam of optical lights on his plating, or heard those pitches in those vocals.

It shook him enough to stop him still, and there he stood, attentive at Megatron's side, optics blaring into nonsensical damage while his hands held onto that arm, digits curling.

"What if it had been worse?" His voice was low, nowhere near as steady as it should be.

"We can play 'what if' until our sparks extinguish, the fact of the matter is it wasn't," Megatron replied. His other hand reached out, brushing Ratchet's face plates. He paused when Ratchet turned his helm away.

"But it could have been," Ratchet replied, his tone heavier. His optics shined a vibrant blue, zoned and set. "A fluke accident? Maybe, but what if it wasn't? What if the next accident turns out worse?"

"Ratchet." Megatron leaned forward, hands cupping that young face that aged millennia each time worry set in. "If it all comes to that then I will meet it when it does. Right now let me relish this moment, this moment where I function, where I'm able to look upon you, reach out and touch you, hold you." He pulled him close, moving his lips against parted plates. "Kiss you."

And that's all Ratchet wanted to do as well; kiss Megatron, kiss him and cling to him and meld into him. His anxiety, his fright, his confounded paranoia turned into desperation to ensure that his conjunx was there with him, that he wasn't a conjured CPU dream, that he wasn't some reminiscent phantom. So he reached out and wrapped his arms around him, ran his hands down broad shoulders, collar structures, and warm chassis plating. Lips moved in a rush to bring in and taste and memorize all over again. Ratchet's own body arched, rubbing against plating until he was sure to connect his own pieces. He wanted to be locked with the mech, forever, so that he could go nowhere without him and he no other place without.

Megatron met Ratchet's hurry. Lips moving with the same rushed flurry. Body leaning, weighing against him. His hands patted down his back side, the tips of his fingers digging into seams, encouraging Ratchet's to do the same. But his own touch focused on the ex-gladiator's chassis.

The moment Ratchet found the latches he subconsciously searched for in his blind grope he pulled. He managed to pull only the first layering away until Megatron realized what he was trying to do. Without further question, and enthusiasm seeping out into his field, the larger retracted his chest paneling and bore his spark chamber.

Oh, this spark! The thought of never being able to take in its beautiful green glow and mass made Ratchet tremble and all he wanted to do was run his fingers through the inner course of the chamber, but in the same his own spark ached to reach out and rub against it and dance around it. Ratchet gave in to the internal ache first.

Leaning back, Ratchet opened his chassis. Blue melded with green in a stunning display. There was a glow in Megatron's optics, a light of excitement, and it only intensified as Ratchet rocked forward connecting lips as well as sparks.

That's when Ratchet felt Megatron above him, under him, around him, and inside him. His very essence ran through his circuitry and moved to calm the frantic medibot while his own hysteria shot through Megatron and made the mech shudder.

The merge lasted longer than usual, this time the reason was Ratchet didn't wanted to let go. He clung, refusing to detach even as their cores threatened dangerous temperatures. Warning notifications appeared across his display, but Ratchet pushed them away just so he could continue to feel, even when feeling began to hurt.

"Ratchet." Megatron was always so strong. This mech had taken numerous damages in the pits and still managed to stand up and ignore the urgency of it all. Even right then Megatron's voice remained strong, the frequency clear and void of traces of pain unlike the sounds slipping past Ratchet's trembling lips. "Ratchet you have to let go." He didn't push, but held onto the medibot, waiting for him patiently.

And Megatron was right because their sparks were currently trying to fall out of their chambers and scamper off into the Afterspark together. The standard time of a merge was stretched, breaking boundaries Ratchet and Megatron had already experimented with. Now, now it was physical pain.

"Just a little longer," Ratchet pleaded, burying his face into Megatron's neck cabling. There was static in his vocals and pain flaring in his field. He knew Megatron felt it from him as well as in him, but he didn't want to let go. He wanted that pain because it would remind him of the agony, the agony of being so close to his conjunx.

Whether Megatron was impressed by how long Ratchet held out or not, the moment a pained moan slipped past his lips, Ratchet knew he hadn't the strength to keep the merge any longer. As he rocked away, both 'bots groaned, grinding denta as their sparks were forced back into their respective chambers, pulsing, throbbing with the residue the other had left. Primus, it hurt, even after chassis’ were shut, but the pain only served to thrill the medibot, moving him to lean in once more and kiss those rubbing lip plates.

Megatron's groan that Ratchet swallowed might have been from the sore ache he and Ratchet were feeling, or it might have been one of pleasant submission to the doctor's kiss. From the way dark hands roamed, digits particularly curling into the biolights of Ratchet's pelvic joints, he suspected the latter. Exhausted as Ratchet was from the long merge, the remembrance of the time passed since his and Megatron's last interface spurred him to heat his temperature, enticing his mate with warming lip plates and devious hands.

Glossas met, tangling as Ratchet clung to Megatron's helm. Primus, it was a crime for each day that passed without being able to do this. A thought pattern that Megatron seemed to be in agreement with.

Moving, Ratchet grasped out, taking Megatron’s constricting arms and then gliding down to find those clinging hands. He guided the servos then, making one rest against the small of his spinal strut and the other along his thigh. He moved, rocking pelvic plating across Megatron's feeling it mirror the heat of his own.

Wincing, Ratchet felt the rhythm of his spark, each pulse sending sharp signals to his pain receptors. He only continued to ignore it all, as he assumed Megatron was by the way his body responded to his in earnest.

None of the pleasure really managed to mask over the pain throbbing from their spark chambers, but no amount of pain drowned out their mounting pleasure either. In fact, Ratchet took the time to embrace it all so that he could remember what it was like to hurt himself along Megatron in their passion. So as soon as his coaxing hand rubbed Megatron's spike panel to open, he slid his valve covering back and sat.

Now, both hands gripped Ratchet's hips as Megatron's optics brightened in the surprise and sudden engulf. He craned, leaning as his frame shook from the point of their connected forms. Ratchet's walls were tight and more than constricting. The doctor bit back every sound of sudden pain to mark each received as a memory he got to share with his conjunx.

Hot venting moved along Ratchet's shoulder and neck plating. The tremors from Megatron rattled the spike wedged inside him and suddenly Ratchet was moaning from the pleasure of it all.

"Ratchet," He heard Megatron say and then he felt his lip plates descend, running along panel and seam and wire. "Primus, Ratchet."

Ratchet felt Megatron move his hips, pushing his spike in deeper despite resisting membrane, but the mesh eventually gave and the lubrication cycle added enough slick to glide them both along. Moving as well, Ratchet vented against Megatron, leaning forward to meld their mouths while their bodies worked to reach their second peak. Steadily, Megatron's pace picked falling in line with Ratchet's urgency and within moments Ratchet was leaning back into the room’s berth, Megatron over him, completely covering him as he moved inside him.

Tugging, Ratchet kissed Megatron's face, his jaw strappings, his neck cabling, his lips. Sounds of scraping, of moist collision echoed into the room and soon enough Ratchet's pained pleasured moans joined the chorus.

"Don't stop." Ratchet gasped when a well-aimed thrust hitched his vocals, and Megatron kept going, rolling their hips, shifting in and out of him with expertise. "This, oh, this!" Reaching out, Ratchet laid his hands on Megatron's moving waist, digits deliberately digging into seams. "I don't want to stop feeling this! I don't want to stop feeling _you_!"

The pain that shifted his facial features battled with the pleasure he was experiencing, and even though his denta remained grit, Ratchet couldn't help the sighs or the smile of absolute satisfaction as Megatron shifted his weight and crushed him into oblivion. Forehelm to forehelm Ratchet's bright optics merged with the light of Megatron's scarlet orbs. He clung to him, just like that, with his hands on that face so close as they moaned from their union. And it was like that they rode out to find their release.

Megatron's spike fulfilled the stretch in his valve, pressing in deep, almost deeper than ever before. Nodes were activated in perfect order to bring Ratchet's overload but two kilks later and in those final moments he shut off his optics because he wanted to just feel. And he did, he felt it all.

Ratchet felt the way Megatron's body shifted above him, shuttering until his spike vibrated with heat. And then he felt Megatron come undone inside him with transfluid filling up his port to the brim. His own hands clung while hot plating threatened to melt him down into the bliss he was feeling right then.

Static and hiccupping vents bounced between them and as Ratchet onlined his optics he was welcomed to the sight of a completely sated conjunx. Megatron leaned, settled in, and laid himself down. Arms wound around Ratchet's abdomen while his helm remained against his chassis, his audio receptor closest to his core as if trying to listen to his very spark beats.

Idle red hands rubbed, digits plucking at plating and wires absently. Ratchet was content to remain like that until their cores' temperatures leveled out. But as they did and the aftermath of passionate pleasure began its farewell, the underlying pains began to rise up.

The groan he heard from Megatron was undoubtedly a pained one. "I don't know if I want to do that again . . . or if I don’t . . ." Ratchet didn't need to reach out through their connection to know he was in as much pain as he was. Insufferable, but manageable.

Ratchet's laugh turned pained as soon as it began. The moan that passed his lip plates a reflection of Megatron's previous noise. He felt the same. Of course he did.

“Not that I’m complaining about the sudden urge to merge, or the slag of good ‘facing.” Megatron managed a chuckle. “Damn, Ratchet.” He was smiling even amongst the pain he exuded when he shifted, leaning himself up on his arms to look down at the medic. “Now I know where most of your passion resides.”

Ratchet only shook his helm, venting as he reveled in being so close. “Tell me we’ll stay like this for a while.” He laid his helm against Megatron’s shoulder and felt the mech shift only to settle back on him per his wish.

“Of course.”

“Tell me there’ll be moments like this in the future, in our future, where we just lay and hold each other.”

“There will be.” Megatron sounded sure and that was all Ratchet needed for his spark to twirl inside him.

“Good.”

The “faulty tubing” was only the first in a series of incidents. There was hydrants that oddly burst during marches, malfunctioning garbage cleansers, one case even reported a novice constructionbot who miscalculated a placement and dropped a titanium beam onto Main Street. The injuries were few, but the occurrences did unnerve some of the marchers while others it infuriated.

It was these wrecks that clung to the movement’s path making cities and towns reluctant to host or even tolerate their presence and the possibility that such incidents would affect them and their way of life. Ratchet was one of the many who didn’t believed these misfortunes were random. Megatron and his inner circle felt the same, but nothing dissuaded them from their set mission and they pressed onward until every sector of Cybertron heard their cries.

Even with the growing numbers there was a rising resent. Ratchet could observe it from the stations. Too many commentators were hooked by the governmental powers—too used to this wretched society. They warned others about useless issues regarding Megatron and his mecha.

They berated his past as a miner, and lately as a gladiator. Unlearned and improperly educated they called him. Their words and name called for prejudice of his make and model as well as his birth place. Whilst Kaon was berated for lodging the mech, these agitators took further steps to ensure Tarn was to feel the shame for what it had brought into the world.

It made Ratchet so mad. He had to replace the monitor twice because of throwing a wrench or two after listening to ignorant accusations. It wasn’t even subtle and that is what perturbed the doctor. This war of words began dividing, and he knew this was _their_ ploy.

This fight was met, however. Ratchet roamed over Megatron’s later writings, the ones he gave to him before he allowed publication. His words were strong, condemning the ramblers but in the same tone urging for unification amongst his following, even compassion for those in offense. It was Ratchet who found himself moved by such words that spoke in light of these defamation jousts.

There was dissatisfaction stirring in the camp as well. Too many agitated ‘bots who got the short end of the rust stick and only wanted to make sure those who dealt knew what it felt like. More than once Ratchet warned Megatron about those rowdy groups mingling into the movement and more than once the ex-gladiator assured Ratchet that he would keep them in line. And he did, for a time. But it would only take so much until patience pulled to where the line was just thin enough not to notice it. Until a disagreement turned into a fight and a fight into a riot.

It was in Nyon where the fights among the agitated grew until it couldn’t be contained. Ratchet wasn’t too certain of the details seeing how the footage shown was heavily edited and the more resolute images reserved for the law officials and makers, but from Megatron’s statement it was a group of thirty dissatisfied mechs, each with a chip on their shoulder struts against society. They were confronted by opposing mecha who hurled insults and curses at them. Megatron claims the Nyons threw the first punch, but that wasn’t what the media was depicting. Even as Megatron and his closers attempted to extinguish the blaze it turned and licked them back.

Window panes were smashed, transportation vehicles overturned, and more than a hundred ‘bots divided between the hospitals. Miraculously, there was no fatalities, but the bad lighting didn’t waver and soon enough the authorities came. Arrests were made, more than a few unjust and while these same authorities wouldn’t dare move a servo against Megatron, they would not answer his plea to just trials for those incarcerated.

These imprisoned ruffians soon became faces to march to. The masses calling for justice and upturning society in one spat. Megatron did what he could to keep their peace; half of his following wanted to seek civil justice while the other half felt the need to fight with fists. The position he was in worsened by the week and with each day he was faced with newer dilemmas that would force him to pick sides.

While he did some things Ratchet strongly disagreed with, he also took stands on subjects and oppositions that made him proud. Megatron still managed to keep his following united by the power of his voice and drive of his spark, but he was still powerless to change where the future was leading them.

In the midst of trying to keep what shattering peace they had, another riot broke out. There were three fatalities. It was enough for the media to denounce them, and the governmental bodies followed.

By that time there was so much unrest, especially in the cities, that it varied from each state. Tarn suffered a painful rift in its residents with a mass exodus of faithful while Kaon buckled under the weight and threats of the movement, and now they were overwhelmed with them. Despite Kaon’s stance to shield Megatron, it did allow the likes of the Sentinel Prime, himself, to come and speak with its officials concerning these extremities.

Ratchet knew Kaon wouldn’t give up Megatron, but it wasn’t below handing over other fellows in his place. That uncertainty is what forced Megatron to decide on moving.

Looking at his empty office didn’t sit well with the medibot, but leaving the room to see the rest of his home cleared, packed, and stacked did something worse. It felt like leaving Iacon all over again.

“No, we don’t need those. Take those to Prax Claw’s storage. Only take the crates I’ve marked.” Megatron was ordering the movers come to help. He was frustrated, Ratchet could feel it, but so was he and he knew if he tried to help settle him then he’d fall into the same anguish. Neither of them wanted to leave.

When he turned, when Megatron looked back at him as Ratchet came out of the empty office, those optics looked remorseful, more than apologetic.

“I can take those, Ratchet.” Barricade came up, offering his arms. Ratchet simply nodded in silence and allowed him to take everything he’d gathered up. Before the mech turned to walk off toward the line of movers Ratchet retracted his decision. “Wait, no, not this.” Ratchet reached into the crate and took up a smaller case, the one with Damus’ project. He still wasn’t finished.

It was a shame how quick it took to empty the place, as if Ratchet and Megatron hadn’t had much at all when in fact they had worked hard to fill up that place and make it into home, their home. An absolute shame.

“I’m sorry about all of this.” Megatron came up beside Ratchet, his field cautiously brushing his, understanding Ratchet’s level of upset.

“It can’t be helped,” Ratchet reasoned, simply repeated what Megatron had come and told him. He should have known it would all come to this. Even then, it still hurt experiencing it all.

“I’ll make it up to you.” Ratchet vented at Megatron’s response. One he’s heard before. “I’ll find a place, a better one, one you deserve.”

Turning, Ratchet reached up, pressing his palm against Megatron’s cheek plating. He tugged him, making those heated optics turn away from the anger and upset, from the unfairness of their situation, and toward him. Just him.

“No,” Ratchet said sternly. “This is the home I want. Right here, right here in Diagonal Tower. I don’t want anything else. Promise me you’ll bring me back to this place one day.”

He watched the anger slip away and soon Megatron was leaning into his touch, moving until lips fluttered across his palm. “I promise,” he said, taking hold of Ratchet’s hand and holding it close. “We’ll both come back.”

As hard as it was to pack up their home, it was much harder to do the same with the clinic. He had patients to see, appointments scheduled, mounds of credit worth in the accumulated equipment there, and most couldn’t be simply moved. There was also the fact that he’s spent more than most of his time there than his home in the tower—in reason by Megatron’s absence—it was more familiar to him than any other place in Kaon. It would be a struggle to leave it all behind, he couldn’t just leave it. So he wouldn’t.

“No.” Ratchet was shaking his helm, glaring at the moving crates. He ordered them remain empty. “No, I can’t. I won’t do this.” He straightened, turning toward Megatron who was about to order his men to begin packing everything Ratchet confirmed they could. “I’m not leaving the clinic.”

“Not leaving?” Megatron paused for a moment, his helm cocking. “You mean you want to stay? Here?”

Ratchet nodded. Damn, there was a struggle inside him, and he felt every blow to his tank.

“The clinic is too close to the tower,” Megatron reasoned. “We had to leave there as a precaution. If Prime and his mecha come looking they’ll be pointed there first, and then here.”

Ratchet remained defiant. “They don’t know about your connection to the clinic.” Or to Ratchet. They both made sure to be as private as possible in public when concerning their relationship. Only the friends they’ve made knew about Ratchet’s relationship to Megatron, at least that’s what he assumed.

“If those fools dig then they will.” Megatron’s anger was spiking, and Ratchet could feel it all in his field, the one pounding against his own almost like he was trying to beat him to submission. “And if they do then they won’t stop at the chance to demolish this place.”

The thought of losing the clinic was rough on Ratchet’s system, but he couldn’t process the image of himself away from it, away from all of the mechs and femmes he’s come to know and help and continue to help. Crossing his arms, Ratchet leaned against his desk. He understood, he really did understand Megatron’s worry, it was partly his own as well. But leaving meant joining Megatron with the others, the others of the movement, and Ratchet couldn’t. Not yet, he just couldn’t.

“I can’t leave my patients.” They weren’t his main reason but Ratchet used the excuse regardless.

“But you’d leave me?”

Ratchet paused, looking at Megatron. While he could see and feel the upset, he could also see the plea in his optics. His spark pulsed within him and it hurt to see that, to _feel_ that.

“I’m not . . . that’s not what I’m doing.” Ratchet shook his helm, refusing to think like that.

“Then why won’t you come with me?” Megatron pressed. “Why won’t you stay with me? Why won’t you come and stand beside me?”

“Because I can’t stand to watch what you let slip by!” There, Ratchet said it. It’s not like Megatron didn’t know how he felt about all the slag growing in the damn movement, the slag you couldn’t just sweep into drainage. “I’m sorry, Megatron, but I can’t. You stuck up for those criminals? They got what they deserved.”

“They might have been rightly labeled, but not even they deserved the underhand treatment they got by loose lips and locks,” Megatron shot back. “Are you defending your own morals or the actions of corrupt wardens?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Ratchet grit his denta, shaking his helm. “Even if I did I’d just be repeating myself. Do you know how tiring that gets?”

“Tiring? No, what’s tiring is waiting with patience and expectance for your own damn mate to actually step up and support you.” The pitches in Megatron’s tone were high, thick with frustration, frustration that Ratchet felt quite clear.

“You think I don’t?”

“I know you don’t.” Megatron’s optics were bright, that frustration morphing into deeper anger. “And the others know it too. Do you know what that feels like? To have everyone looking at you to lead them only to question your ability when you can’t lead those closest to you?” A beat passed before those optical paneling flickered, dimming. Megatron took a step back to correct himself and his outburst. “Look, I know how you were raised, I know how hard it is to break out of that culture to see something else.”

“And what is it I can’t see? Is it travesty? I’ve been down here long enough to see firsthand what that is, not that those level don’t see plenty of it. Is it misfortune? Is it injustice? Then what about those who do deserve it? Will you spare them just because of circumstance? You’re too lenient, Megatron, and it will cost you.”

“Cost me you, is that what you’re saying?”

“No!” Ratchet had to take a break to collect himself. He didn’t want this, but he knew he had to face it. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You make any acceptation and now you’re a terrorist, you and all the ones who support you. Do you know how many follow you? Do you know their names, their native cities, where they work, who their friends and family are? They’re risking so much and the moment you go down they go down. And it’s so easy that you don’t get it.”

There was a silence as they processed everything said to one another, every shout and scream. Megatron moved first, shifting as if he were turning to leave, but his optics kept him within Ratchet’s field.

“And I’m risking all of this, aren’t I?” He motioned to the clinic and then toward Ratchet. “It’s just too risky to be with me.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “I can’t, Megatron. I can’t fight like you and the others. I just . . . I don’t know how.”

“Then let me teach you.” Megatron moved, coming close, hands out, begging for Ratchet to just reach out to him.

“You don’t get it.” Ratchet’s smile was pained, and it only lasted for a short span before his lips dipped. “I don’t want to fight for that. I want to fight for you, for us.”

“That is what I’m doing!” Megatron stressed, his field flaring with quick frustration again.

His vocals echoed off the walls of Ratchet’s clinical office. Ratchet only remained, watching Megatron, seeing every ridge and curve, every shift in his plating that poured out his emotions. He felt them all without having to see them, and the hurt was more upsetting to the doctor than that obvious anger.

“You fight how you’ve always fought; in your own way,” Ratchet concluded. “But not the way I need.” He turned, moved behind his desk and took a seat, his stance clear. “I’ll be here if you or any of your followers get yourself hurt again.”

Ratchet had to look away. The shock and distress in Megatron’s features hurt him almost as much as feeling it all through their connection. His spark rattled inside him, the tantrum to the point he felt pained, sick. But he had to do this, he had to stay, and all he wanted was for Megatron to understand, yet, Ratchet understood why he couldn’t.

For some time Megatron stood there, glaring, still, as if unsure of what to do next. His frame tensed as if struggling to stay. When he turned he stopped once by the door. “I’m sure Rumble and Frenzy won’t mind staying to . . . watch over things.” He looked back, searching for Ratchet’s gaze but the doctor still couldn’t look back at him, and so those red optics turned away. There was a small sound, Ratchet thought Megatron might have said something but the sound was stopped and all that was heard after was the retreating sound of his form.

Ratchet wasn't thrilled to live with regret. The one that stemmed from staying. He was a medibot and took his programing seriously. Following his coding should have eased his internal stress but with each passing day it agitated and worsened.

Perhaps his condition wasn't helped by the slew of 'bots that entered his clinic carrying repairs and questions to his choice, many already supporters of Megatron but too ill to follow. Yet Ratchet wasn't and there he was, so far from where his conjunx settled with a chunk of his most trusted friends, looking all too similar to the opposition rising to meet the movement's ambitions.

Ratchet could hear his patients' murmurs, could sense their glares. He didn't care about their newfound opinion of him. What did bother him were the constant questions of why he persisted when he should be beside Megatron. He scoffed at the notion and those questioners, as if they knew what he should or shouldn’t do.

Repetitive as it all was and as memorized as Ratchet had collected his response, in the end he stopped answering, focusing his attention on repairs and repairs alone. He couldn't continue with such a daily barrage because the more the others asked the more Ratchet's very spark asked, echoing in return. It was hard enough to live with his regret, harder still at the rising thought of dropping everything and going to Megatron each day.

"If you want to, I can run the clinic."

Ratchet was sorting chemicals, mixing a formula for a group of patients waiting out in the lobby. He halted and then turned to face his assistance. Damus looked nervous but the light in his optic was fiery, a light very similar to the ones often ablaze in Megatron's own optical paneling.

"Run the clinic?" Ratchet questioned.

Damus nodded vigorously. "You want to go, I can see it." Ah, so that's what he was implying.

Sounding a sigh, Ratchet shook his helm, forcing himself to get back to mixing up that formula.

"No. No, I'm not going anywhere." Taking up the slip he sealed the mixture and then maneuvered around his assistant to go out into the lobby and hand it to the waiting 'bots. "Got too many damn patients to carelessly abandon them like that."

"But you won't abandon them." Damus was following him, sticking to him like magnetized alloy. "I know more than a thing or two. I can hold down this place if you needed to take a few days to travel."

Ratchet stopped on his way back into the repair room. Turning, he looked at Damus. He was one persistent 'bot.

"I don't plan on traveling anywhere. You can drop the subject, alright?"

"But it'll be good for you." Damus swiveled around, reaching out to touch Ratchet.

Ratchet only snorted at the response. "What, are you now my doctor?"

"I may not be a medibot but I've had more than enough experience to tell when someone's not well. And you're not. Pardon me for saying it so bluntly."

Ratchet wanted to focus more on his annoyance bubbling from the barrage of pestering but he couldn't help but sense the distress in his spark more than anything. Confounded bonds.

"None of that concerns you."

Damus nodded, raising his claw and tapping Ratchet on the chassis. "You're right, but it concerns you, and Megatron."

Ratchet was quiet for a moment before he was suddenly aware of watching optics. Looking toward awaiting patients made Ratchet want to shove the matter back away, but, instead he motioned for his assistant to come and take a moment with him in his office. It was there he rubbed his face and took all the time he needed to dwell on the mech's words and their truth.

"So you think that all I need to do is go visit Megatron and the others and I'll suddenly feel better?" He looked at Damus with hard optics, trying to scare him off because if he did then he wouldn't have to face this topic.

Unfortunately, Damus stood his ground and fought. "Maybe? I don't know, but you won't know unless you try."

Ratchet battled himself, his will against his wants and needs. "I just don't . . . I don't want to give them the wrong idea."

"And what is that? That you're a loyal friend and mate? That you are still concerned for their wellbeing? You know, even if it was for a solar cycle, they would respect your devotion."

Ratchet was quiet once more, processing it all. "So what about you, Damus? Where do you want to be?"

"With them." He didn't at all hesitate. "But, I'm needed here. So I'm here."

Ratchet saw no lie in that bright blue optic. And the mech's response hit Ratchet so hard in the chest that he swore it nicked his spark chamber. Damn it all.

"Do you think . . . do you think he'd mind?" After how they parted, Ratchet was more than wary on the possibility of going to see Megatron. All understandable, naturally. But as Ratchet watched Damus’ expression morphed, he perked up. If the kid had a mouth he'd be smiling from audio receiver to audio receiver.

"No! Of course not." His field flared outward and Ratchet swore he could feel those eager pushes to urge him out the door.

"Just for a day?" If Ratchet went he knew better than to stay long. Any more than a day then he might finally subside and join the damn movement, if just to be next to Megatron.

Shaking his helm, Damus moved closer. "I think that would be more than enough to brighten up the others, especially Megatron."

Ratchet nodded. He'd have to schedule some travel then in the near future.

"I can close shop today if you want to—"

"I didn't say I'd do it today." Damus' present enthusiasm made him laugh, but it felt nice agreeing to this. He didn't feel as weighted down anymore, at least not for the moment.

"When then?"

When indeed. Ratchet shrugged, trying to think less on the scheduling and more on the tasks at hand.

"When I get time to think about it." Standing, Ratchet made to leave his office, Damus following. "Right now, we've both got jobs to do. Let's finish those before we discuss any of this further."

Just as soon as they left the office and moved into the repair room, the waiting patients turned away from them, startled by the sounds coming from outside. At first Ratchet was opting to tune out any commotion as was too common in those parts but he caught pitches of Frenzy's frequency as well as Rumble's. The sounds of metallic collision is what set Ratchet and the others inside on edge.

Worry riddled the place as 'bots jumped to move away as the front door opened to reveal imposing silhouettes. Two mechs stepped inside. The sigil on their chests made it clear their status in society.

Elite Guard.

It wasn't so much as their presence that frightened Ratchet but what they had apparently done to the minibots outside.

"Frenzy, Rumble!" Ratchet rushed to the door, intent to scan the both of them but the two 'bots stood unmoved. "Out of my way!"

"Designation: Ratchet. Case number: 11148762, has been reopened. According to Cybertron law you are hereby ordered to appear before a judge and jury of the sector you were sentenced in."

Ratchet's optics brightened. Lips parted and helm shook slightly. What was this? He was being summoned? To Iacon?

"No, there must be some mistake." Ratchet felt the need to take a step back after the Guards' blaring forces rubbed him raw. "I can't, I was banished from Iacon."

"Under legislation Bot-Slate, all sentences are suspended upon a reopening and will remain so until further court proceedings are examined and rectified. If the accused should be found acquitted, reparations are paid and previous sentencing waved."

Even with all of the information, Ratchet was finding trouble taking everything in. Especially coming from a pair of Elite Guard who came up to his clinic, did who-knows-what to Rumble and Frenzy outside and was now demanding his return to a city he thought he'd never be allowed to step pede in again.

With a glance toward Damus, Ratchet revealed to him his worry. The younger let Ratchet know his own troubles by stepping closer, a sign of his willingness to stand beside him in this unwary moment.

"Alright." Ratchet could see just what their oppressing fields were doing to his patients. They were frightened, perhaps on the edge of fight or flight, and that was the last thing Ratchet wanted to be the cause of. So he submitted to the authorities. "Alright, just let me close and get these mecha out."

"We were assigned to locate and bring you in. Under no pretext are we required to allow any form of stall." When one reached out and gripped Ratchet's wrist rotator so tight that it tugged the medibot closer, the unsteady mess of EM fields crowded inside began to destabilize.

Ratchet gawked, his immediate reaction was to pull away, but the guard held on tight.

"Please, you can't let me do just that? Can't you see these 'bots are restless?"

There was no reason to be had and even in Ratchet's struggle the mech never let go, instead he tightened his grip and everyone present could hear the cracks from snapping gears. He pulled Ratchet closer.

"We aren't an escort, we're retrievers, and we secure our objective through any means." His optics darkened, and the face of the other mirrored. "And we certainly don't mind doing this the hard way."

When Damus jumped in and reached out it had surprised Ratchet more than the Elite Guard visit. Of course it didn't at all alleviate his worry when the young mech placed his claws onto the soldier's arm and used his ability to sever the electrical connection to forearm sensors. The malfunction had the mech letting go in a surprised gasp, and Ratchet stumbled away.

"You!" The other retaliated, shoving a charged prod into Damus' tank. "Fragging outlier!"

Damus went down from the assault but the guard didn't stop. Kicks and punches were delivered until the other got feeling back into his arm and joined his partner.

"Wait! Wait, stop!" Ratchet haphazardly pushed himself between the attack; raising his hands to get them to stop, and, well, if they didn't then at least they could strike him. Damus had more than suffered their wrath. "Please, I'll go. Just take me back to Iacon, I won't fight and neither will anyone else." The fire in the soldiers' optics was frightening, neither showing signs they were through. "Please," he once again pleaded. No more, he wanted no more violence in his clinic.

After a few beats the guards shifted and reached forward and took a hold of the doctor. Ratchet was pulled along none too gently, but with their focus returned to him they left the clinic in the haste he expected them to.

The last glance Ratchet was able to provide let him look to Damus and his patients. The 'bots were surrounding Damus, placing worried hands on his dented frame. And there he lay, looking at him with fright and shame and endless worry glowing in that optic.

Outside Ratchet nearly stumbled over the forms of Rumble and Frenzy. A quick scan revealed they were online, but unconscious. Their frames looked worse than Damus and he knew the guards spared no prejudice showing the two minicons their place.

Ratchet's programing made his tank churn at the sight and hands twitch. He needed to repair them, and Primus help them if someone didn't do something, but he was powerless to stop those strong arms and gripping hands from pulling him along away from his clinic, away from Kaon, and toward Iacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *After 40 plus pages* I feel like I rushed this chapter, lol!


	10. The State of Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember what happened to the Trojans when they took Helen?  
> ;D

“It’s crazy. Populace pleasing, obviously, but crazy.”

Orion turned from the data files he was filing out and looked toward his fellow cadet. Whirl was a servo-full in his own right, and more than rambunctious in his patrols and wiling service scenarios, but his blunt opinions more than thrilled his cohort in that he said things Orion was better tempered not to say. Right then, Orion couldn’t quite understand what he was droning on about.

“The Captain finally cave to staff pressure and start serving ener-spheres in the break room?” Orion chuckled at the ongoing petition. Whirl seemed to brighten at the idea as well.

“That battle’s not over yet,” He pointed toward him before crossing his arms. “No, I’m talking about the recall. Haven’t you heard about it?”

Orion looked at him quizzically.

Whirl motioned again. “You know, about the trials. The Council and Senate passed the Act and now the judicial courts are going through all those cases. It’s like one giant retrial for all the ones involved in court casings since the past vorn. It’s some kind of ‘second chance’ ruse to come off as the _good guys_. Yeah, sure. It’s got the forensic department in a tiff, same with the detective division. Haha, serves them right. That’ll make those afts work, but, you know in the end it’s going to be ‘bots like you and me they’re gonna shirk their datawork on.”

“Wait . . .” Whirl looked at Orion curiously. He could see that sharp processor of his ramping. “You said they’re opening cases as far back as last vorn?”

Whirl nodded. “We’re about to be up to our optics in proceedings. And here I thought you’d be as annoyed as the rest of the department.”

Orion was quiet again, those optics of his bright, flashing with processing thoughts before they zoned in back toward Whirl. “Do you have a list of the cases coming into retrial?”

Whirl shrugged and then nodded. “Sure. Want to get a head start on your homework or something?”

The moment the list was in Orion’s grasp the mech zoomed through the numbers and subjects, heading straight to the names of the ‘bots involved. He scrolled so far back that Whirl assumed he was just going to go straight to the Case A junction of the list, instead he picked out a particular case and opened it. That was when he froze.

“By law these ‘bots have to appear before a judge and jury in their sentenced jurisdiction.” Though Orion Pax has said it Whirl didn’t think he was particularly telling him as much as he was simply reminding himself. Whirl nodded regardless. “And that’s going to be the jailer’s processorache.”

Whirl hadn’t even gotten the chance to complain further with his coworker. Orion moved the next moment and left his desk, left the office, left the building and the department all together. Whirl hadn’t seen how shock and disbelief and fright gripped the young mech to the point he had to leave so he could run to his friends, the ones he was certain would share in the same upset that was currently gripping him.

He met them in the middle. Thunderclash had found out first and shared his hysteria with Pharma who in turn contacted Jazz who was in the process of comming Orion who only appeared before the gathered. Without further stall they all raced off to the holding barracks where those under the heaviest sentencing were kept until their scheduled retrial. And it was there they saw the frame of the mech they’ve been so desperately trying to return to the city.

Ironically enough Prowl happened to be the stationed Guard and he had no qualms with letting the group move into the cell and wrap themselves around the pending condemned.

“Ratchet!” Where Orion Pax, Jazz, and even Prowl had the privilege of reuniting with their old friend, Thunderclash and Pharma had yet to properly reach out and wrap tight arms around him. Those two happened to be the ones nearly constricting him to death right then.

“Primus, you’re back!” Jazz was bouncing, his grin so wide that his facial plating twisted around it. “You’re actually back in Iacon!”

Even with everything that’s happened, Ratchet smiled along with his friends, hanging off their arms and sobbing for their fields as much as they were. And what a mess of adoration they were.

“Slag, you’ve got to let me check you.” Pharma scooted back, sending his scans into their highest capacity as he let his hands roam over Ratchet’s frame, scrutinizing even the smallest of dents.

“Pharma, please.” Ratchet attempted to pull himself away from his friend’s examination but each tug only tightened the aerial’s grip. Pharma glared and made sure that the few tugs he enacted reasoned enough with his old friend. “I’m fine,” Ratchet once more persisted.

“You’ve be gone for . . . for . . . longer than I want to actually recount,” Pharma said with bright optics. “The sublevels, and Kaon’s especially? There’s no way you can convince me you walked away from all of that untarnished.” It was thanks to Pharma’s meticulous scan-over that he noticed the subtle injuries, particularly the bent wrist joints. “What’s this?” He looked at Ratchet knowing firsthand how well-kept he was, especially with his hands. “Did they drag you here?”

That was when Ratchet’s face shifted. The features of love and happiness over being within the close fields of old friends faded away and revealed the hidden distress. He bowed his helm and rubbed digits over his damaged gears.

“I was forced to leave my clinic. They even hurt my assistant and the ones who were there to help me . . .” Ratchet glanced toward Prowl, toward the emblem on his chassis. “They gave me no other choice.”

“Does Megatron know?” Optics turned toward Orion who pressed the question into the fray, knowing the severity of it.

Ratchet looked at him with pain swirling in his optics, the pain of a deeper kind that Orion knew better than to poke at right then. With a shake of his helm, Ratchet answered the question.

“We weren’t together when it happened.” Something else flashed across Ratchet’s features then, something that could be felt even through his EM field. “I don’t know what he’ll do if . . . Primus, just what is happening?” He stressed, looking toward Prowl who may know more than the questioning others. “A retrial? Why? Did they find some other evidence? Did that damn judge finally open up his muddled processor and realize the misconduct? Why am I back in Iacon?”

“You’re not the only one.” When the group turned to the additional voice they turned their optics upon the senator Dai Atlas.

“Senator?” Orion took a step forward, wary optics on the two guards at the Senator’s side, but as he approached they stayed their distance.

He came until he was lined with Ratchet. He looked at him for a moment, scanning him over and assessing him and everything about him. Then he held out a hand in greeting.

“We finally meet,” Dai Atlas inclined his helm politely. “I regret to have held off this introduction for so long.”

Wary, but susceptible to polite customs, Ratchet took the Senator’s hand.

“I did not agree to the terms beset upon you at your trial,” Dai Atlas clarified, trying to wash away the upset visible in Ratchet’s optics. “However, I am but one voice against too many alike. Your friends have inspired me to follow your plight, one I wish to see redeemed, though, given these circumstances I wanted to personally come and clarify that this is likely no work of goodwill.”

“What is happening?” Orion pressed. “Why are these cases being reopened?”

“To hide a darker intention,” Dai Atlas replied. “I can see no other reason than to acquire those too far to come closer.” He looked to Ratchet with worry. “My friend, I would hold onto that worry.” He looked to the others. “As well as you all. Even I am unsure of what this Act will fulfill.”

“Do you think Ratchet’s here to receive the same sentence?” Thunderclash asked.

“Or worse,” Pharma suggested with a horrified tone.

“No, no, we can’t let that happen.” Jazz pressed. “There’s got to be something. The other trials are getting just as much attention, and the ones before, there were some acquitted. There’s got to be some leeway here. Ratchet’s innocent after all.”

Dai Atlas shifted in thought, for only a moment. “He’ll be innocent if that’s what the officials want him to be.” He gave them all a pitying look, one he’s ashamed to have come to understand. “I have heard that there were differences found in the evidence concerning this case, as well as other vital components. I have not been given any more detail than that. But know that this will end in either of the extremes. I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

Silence washed over them all. Optics looked away, delving into thought and the possible futures to come. In the end, each light strayed back toward Ratchet, the one who had the most to lose. Again.

“Ratchet?” Thunderclash’s vocals were gentle, as was the touch of his hand that laid upon his friend’s shoulder strut.

“It’s fine.” His response echoed off the walls only because his friends were silent in their worry, a worry pounding down upon Ratchet like his own. “I’ve done this before, and I can do it again.”

Fields shifted against one another, unease intensifying.

“I won’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you.” Jazz spoke for more than himself. “I can’t see you go through all of that again.”

“And I don’t think Ratchet is particularly fond of going through it once more as well,” Thunderclash said, pushing against Jazz. He looked just as grieved, but his own couldn’t equate to what he felt within his old friend. “Ratchet, I . . .” He sighed. There was nothing he could say. What could he? How could he? His life really wasn’t the one on the line now was it?

“If I am sentenced again, do you know what will become of me?” Ratchet was standing straight, looking at no one in particular, speaking to no one in particular except the one ‘bot who could give him the best answer.

It was Dai Atlas who responded. “Offlinement. To coincide with the law.”

Even though everyone knew it, the truth further proved how damaging it felt against spark chambers. But Ratchet, Ratchet was still standing; straight and tall and kept. Orion was impressed, but he didn’t deny sensing that fear lacing his field.

Nodding, Ratchet quieted himself. Digits curled and face scrunching. He was worried, but for more reasons than he disclosed right then.

Turning, Orion looked to Dai Atlas. “Then this will have to be our chance to be heard. Is there any way that you can ensure Ratchet’s defense will be heard and analyzed?”

Crossing his arms, Dai Atlas nodded. “I know a friend, he’s a lawyer, a good one. But I still can’t guarantee a fair fight. As I’ve stated before: his fate’s already decided.”

“We have to try,” Orion pressed. He looked back to Ratchet. Their optics met, and even as Ratchet’s wavered, Orion stood strong. He had to.

“If that is what you want.” Dai Atlas inclined himself and bid them a farewell before parting.

Turning completely, Orion Pax took Ratchet’s hands in his own. He said nothing about the faint trembles he initially felt in those red servos. But he was glad those nervous optics looked up at him.

“Just like before, we’re here for you,” he assured.

Ratchet managed a smile, but let his helm hang. Orion at least felt the mech squeeze his hands in return. “That both eases me and scares the slag out of me.” He finally looked to them again. There was a lighting in his optics that looked like reservation. “Last time, even though I was distraught out of my processor, I was content. Content that it was just me. You all are my best friends, I love you all for everything you’ve been to me and have done for my sake, but, please, if it comes to the end we think it, please don’t fight it. Let it just be me.”

That was when Orion pulled Ratchet away from those thoughts by another squeeze of his hands. Ratchet looked back up at him. “Who do you take us for, Ratchet? We’ve pressed on for this long? We’re not done yet. None of us, and especially you.” He tugged, pulling Ratchet into his arms, letting him hide his tremors behind his larger frame. “We’re going to face this together. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

It felt good when Orion Pax felt Ratchet wind his arms around him and hold him against him. For a short moment, that hysteria faded away from fields.

. . .

It took some coaxing and more than enough guidance for the 'bots surrounding Damus' damaged frame to give him proper help. Once the rustic mech was well enough to stand without shaking over he moved his aching limbs to the two minibots beaten outside. From assisting Ratchet for so long he was able to provide patching repairs to the two, enough to boot them.

After further minor patches the three took off to inform Megatron of all that had happened.

When the anti-functionist movement fell onto unstable bearings—with the media and its supporters—the bulk of its most faithful moved into the outskirts of Kaon territory. Just close enough to the city, but far enough to be isolated from the authorities it confined. It was there temporary homes were erected and 'bots resided under the guidance of the movement's leader whilst he also scheduled further courses.

It was in that encampment Damus, Rumble and Frenzy, found the mech they were looking for.

"Megatron! Megatron!"

Damus hadn't even gotten a cry in between the two minibots who were flailing arms and shouting to rouse the camp. Optics fell on them and audials tuned in to focus on their hysteria.

"Megatron!" Finally they managed to push their way through the crowds and the more intimidating mecha guarding the spot where Megatron stood hunched over tables of spanned city maps and stacks of both nonofficial and official messages.

When those red optics turned toward them, Damus knew he wasn't the only one that noticed the annoyance glowing in that paneling.

"It's Ratchet!" Frenzy pitched.

They all heard Megatron sound a sigh. "And what does he have to say this time?"

Damus and Rumble and Frenzy all shook their helms. "He's gone! Ratchet's gone!"

In an instant, that annoyance vanished and shades darker than Damus has ever seen lit those optical panels.

"Gone?" Optics glared harshly at them, notably at the smaller mechs, and as soon as Megatron took a step closer he said, "What do you mean he's _gone_?"

"The Guard!" Rumble spoke up. "They came and they just took 'im!"

Megatron's gaze quickly flicked toward Damus, urging confirmation. Damus realized how utterly terrifying it could be to be underneath the ex-gladiator's stare. He couldn't help his tremors.

"I-It's true, all of it. The Elite Guard just came in and said that Ratchet was ordered back to Iacon for some retrial. They said he had to go."

For a brief moment Damus caught the horror flash across Megatron's gaze. He leaned back as if struck by some invisible blow. He staggered for only a moment before his features shifted into the deepest upset. Then he was shaking his helm, squaring his shoulder struts and glaring.

"And what were you doing?!" He was looking at Rumble and Frenzy in specific, but the pitch of his tone still gave Damus just as much startle. "You're telling me the Elite Guard came to the clinic and they happened to just waltz in and take Ratchet?"

"No, we-we tried to stop them," Rumble assured. "But they overpowered us. We did everything we could."

In their plea Damus watched Megatron's facial plating shift, morphing into twisted rage that looked ready to be let out.

"Useless!" Megatron turned, his frame taught but twitching, like an urge to strike and unleash destruction. Damus was amazed by his resolve, but even in that amazement those closest didn't waste further moments to distance themselves in the chance of it. "I should have made him come. Frag it all, I should have made him stay by my side!" Megatron arched, leaning and placing his fisted hands onto the nearest table. Heated glares continued to turn toward Frenzy and Rumble and the two quaked underneath their intensity. Damus knew the two blamed themselves more than anything, but to have Megatron's own disapproval was heavy and terrifying.

"A retrial?" Damus turned to look at Barricade's curious face. "You said he had a retrial?"

Damus nodded. Megatron was looking at him as well. "That's what the Guard said and that he was summoned to Iacon by law. They didn't even let us close the clinic. They just . . . they just . . ." They just took him.

Barricade and the others looked upset, Nowhere near as Megatron did, but Damus knew the depths of their concern. Many in the encampment cherished Ratchet despite his standing, and by Primus, Damus would gladly stand beside them if they so needed him to in their plight to get Ratchet back to safety.

"Get Senator Starscream on the line." Megatron's order was not questioned and executed as quickly as possible. The moment the seeker received the call the atmosphere silenced, every audial keening.

' _A personal call? Why, whatever do I owe the pleasure?_ ' Starscream's holographic face shifted, smiling sharply even when Megatron offered him no pleasant curtesy in return.

"What are these retrials?" Megatron's tone was pressing, demanding, something he's never quite used with the likes of the Vosian before.

Starscream was quiet for a moment, his smile gone when he churned into his processor. After a moment his optics lit with recognition. ‘ _Are you referring to the current wave of retrials? The Senate and Council passed the Act just last deca-cycle. It went into effect a mega-cycle ago_.’

"Then it's true that those summoned have no choice but to return to the sector they were sentenced in?"

Starscream nodded. ' _So the law still stands_.'

Megatron dipped his helm, shaking it as he realized the truth and the severity of the situation.

' _What's got you so troubled? Unless you've had any run-in's in the last vorn you shouldn't be concerned_.'

"Ratchet was summoned back to Iacon for a retrial." Megatron looked back at the Senator's face.

Though new news, Starscream didn't openly show shock. ' _Well, now that trial's bound to draw a crowd_.'

"Is there any way I can help him out of that?" Megatron looked to the Senator for answers, hoping he'd provide him the ones he needed to hear.

' _Not lawfully_.'

That wasn't the response Megatron wanted and it showed. Damus and the others could feel his frustration, his utter worry oozing out into his field and it was so overwhelming and potent that it near physically pushed the perimeter around him further.

' _If I were you I'd keep out of it entirely_.'

The anger that flared rattled a few frames around and as Megatron jerked his helm back and bared his denta, Damus swore he detected a growl in his frequency. "He is my endurae! You can't expect me to do nothing!"

' _Coming from you, Megatron, I have no expectations. However, seeing as I'm the mech with his helm leveled enough it would be wise on your part to heed my advice. Iacon is the seat of the government and the last time you and it came face to face you left a bad impression, so gallivanting into the city to help a fellow should be the least of your concerns. No matter what the medibot is to you, he's just a small portion in the grander scheme. Your duty right now is to the movement. It's already on unstable legs and should you move yourself from holding up those beams, well, I'm not a constructionbot but I'm certain I don't need to educate you on what'll happen_.'

There was a look on Megatron's face, a resisting one, but he was quiet. Didn't say a word. That opening gave room for Starscream's smile to return and him to say—

' _I'll keep you updated if you want. Just try not to do anything too compromising_.'

The call ended with that and a klik later Megatron was throwing the table he was leaning against across the room. No one uttered a word and so it wasn't hard to take in the static in Megatron's frequency nor the whirl of his internal fans in an attempt to cool his heating core.

. . .

There wasn't too long of a span for Ratchet to wait until his trial was represented. It was the same faces; the same judge, the same jury, the same witnesses and liaisons. The crowd was probably damn near nearly the same and it rattled Ratchet's nerves just as it had before.

Primus, even after as long as it’s been, and the distance Ratchet has come in accepting the fate handed to him on that day, he felt that creeping nostalgic terror seep into his core, bleeding through his systems.

Ratchet tried to tell himself that there was a possibility for a different outcome this time around. He tried to assure himself that more consideration and regulation would file through the evidence and credentials of the witnesses unlike before. Even his friends tried to keep this pattern of processing. The optimism didn't last long. The outlook sucking itself away, disappearing when Ratchet felt familiar optical lights wash over his taut frame.

As independent and resilient as Ratchet's become he still struggled to turn his optics and meet the gaze of Senator Proteus. The mech was sitting with his entourage and two other senators in attendance, one being Dai Atlas the other Decimus. There was just something about that mech's stare that made Ratchet feel as isolated as he felt the first time he was tried—the feeling very similar to that defining moment within the confines of Senator Proteus' office.

That was when Ratchet knew. That was when he understood that he was there because of that 'bot. Proteus swore to come back into his life and now there he was, holding a look of utmost satisfaction especially when the quoted new evidence came out in the form of the Senator's personal physician.

Right then he claimed full responsibility for offlining Greenlight and her sparklings.

Disbelief and shock shook the courtroom. Camerabots zoned in, tuning every word, every reaction. They had clear view of even Ratchet's dumbfounded face.

Looking at the medibot, Ratchet could clearly see the way the mech shook as he announced before the entire room his involvement, even going as far to detail a disdainful statement for the family and his plight to end the Senator's concubine and their litter. He claimed his intention was to hurt Proteus and his household as well as pin the blame on another, of whom he verified was Ratchet. Yet, even after all of this, Ratchet could see the fright, he could see the absolute grief wash over the personal medic, and he knew that it wasn't because of his current confession.

Suddenly, everything fell into place just as it fell out of place; evidence, aligning witnesses, mishandlers within the forensic depart, and finally a confessor. Ratchet's processor was whirling with the other mechs and femmes in attendance, and now the verdict was being announced.

"In light of everything received within the course of this opened hearing, under oath and law it is hereby ordered the complete reinstation of the mech Ratchet's credentials and titles as well as citizenship. Full reparation will be offered and extended until the accused so deems it. Moving over to the convicted, you are hereby responsible for the duty of punishment for the crimes you profess, the result is death, unless the sentence is swayed by a mediator of a controlling third party."

And just like that, it was over.

There were cheers, talk rising up so loudly that Ratchet couldn't hear himself think. He felt hands on him. They were from his friends. They were smiling, sobbing, reaching out and hugging him. It was in the mayhem that Ratchet wanted to join their cries, but as he saw the one who took his place he felt something cold slither through him.

Cuffed and bound, the medibot was escorted out of the courtroom by a line of Guard. They pulled at him, jerked him harshly and sneered. They gave him the same treatment as they had Ratchet when he was sentenced. Suddenly, Ratchet felt his spark thrum painfully, constricting within his chamber as he looked upon a grief-riddled and broken 'bot, one forced to comply to a sentence because someone had to.

He wore his worry further even as pressbots pushed to claim an interview with him, and mecha he's never associated with came to send their apologies and regards. His friends did well to shield him from the extreme attention and pitying public, but none of them could protect him from the growing feeling of absolute dread that he took very seriously in this sudden change of circumstances.

. . .

They were all crowded around the monitor, watching with wide optics and bated fields. Curious and skeptical murmurs arose when the new evidence was presented and scoffs of disbelief bounced around when the medibot confessed to the crimes and silence returned when the details were considered and examined. As soon as the final verdict rung out and the courtroom erupted in surprise so too did the viewing crowds.

There were cheers and congratulatory exclamation. Too many excited to welcome in justice after it had been swept away before.

"He didn't do it! I knew it! They finally found out. Ratchet, he can finally go back to his home in Iaco—" Barricade's shared excitement quickly died when his excited frame turned to the likes of Megatron. He remained still, stoic, but the laces in his field revealed his true opinion on the matter.

"He's not banished anymore," Rumble assessed, his own tone sounded incriminatingly disappointed. "Does that mean he's going to stay away for good?"

"If he's free then won't he be free to come back?" Frenzy questioned his brother.

"He's a doctor isn't he? They're gonna give him his title back and, I dunno, put him back where he used to work, right?" Rumble wasn't the only one dwelling on such things. Despite the relief of his revealed innocence, they understood the position now expected of the returned doctor.

Even with the cascading silence of realization a voice broke out, a voice that belonged to no one present.

The voice of a senator of Iacon.

 _'I can't be the first to tell you how utterly alarmed I am to finally know of what has been festering in my own household. Discontent, greed, envy? I am a mech, I make mistakes, but I never thought it would cost me someone I love_.' Senator Proteus could be seen laying his hand over his chassis, a gesture of lost affection. He even looked remorseful. Despite that, the present 'bots couldn't detect so much in his vocals. _'As for the verdict, I hope that bastard gets everything he deserves for all the grief he's caused me and my household . . . and Ratchet. I can't express enough remorse for how I treated him after believing he . . ._ '

' _Senator Proteus, what gave you and the others the instigation to issue the Prestate Act?_ ' Reporterbots pressed close, the question embedded deep even in the encampment.

' _Well . . ._ ' Proteus' smile, though friendly, didn't really come off like such. ' _Believe it or not it was the unrest sweeping over our planet. The contempt for societal composition and the numbers behind this surge. Believe what you will but I've been listening to them, and the one who speaks for them. It was through this and those words that inspired me to look back on our judicial structure and turn my optics as if in their viewpoint. I hope that I honor those devastated by inaccurate verdicts with these second chances_.'

The Senator remained to answer a few more questions but he was drowned out by dissent and division. Mecha murmured, sneered and outright growled. Their leader looked on disapprovingly and without his faith in the governmental move they too lacked it in the approved bill.

Suddenly, Megatron turned and moved. Those closest shone curious optics until they realized he was attempting to leave the camp entirely.

"Where are you going?" Overlord sounded accusing, and turned, shifting as if to chase the mech down. His call alerted the others and now every optic watched Megatron's next move.

Megatron wasn't looking at anything or anyone in particular, his field was unstable, full of too many emotions to isolate and name. That in and of itself moved those closest to create a space around him, unease intensifying with Megatron's prolonged silence.

"We all heard what Starscream said." Overlord crossed his arms, those closest could feel his disagreement. "And most of us agree with his reasoning."

"Yeah." Barricade stepped forward ushering looks from Lugnut and Damus who stood nearby. "Look, Ratchet's fine. At least now he is. We, you, us, this movement, I don't think Iacon will want to see us anytime soon."

Megatron turned to them, to the ones speaking out. They were honest and true and have been faithful since near the beginning. He meant no ill intent toward them, but in the same sense he couldn't help but feel as if they were road blocks agitating his path, and it wasn't hard for them to understand this.

"I can't just _stay_ here," Megatron finally spoke. He looked at the others, reached out to them still as if they were his brothers. "I expect you to understand that most."

There was a short silence before Barricade shifted and dared cite his opinion again. "But it wouldn't be right, not right now." He looked nervous going against Megatron's obvious wishes and looked toward the likes of Lugnut and Soundwave who proved the more devout to every choice Megatron's made thus far.

"The riots in Nyon, when Grimstain and the others were arrested they damn well deserved what they got." Megatron's gaze was heavy on those around him. "But did we abandon them?" He shook his helm in answer. "Are we not brothers? Locked arm in arm in this fight for equality? If so then where is your allegiance? If not to me then to Ratchet. Without him I wouldn't have ever taken this movement as far as it has gone. He deserves every much respect as a founder as I."

"But what danger is he in?" Overlord stressed.

"He's in danger of the shackles of Iacon," Megatron stressed in return. "I know many, if not all of you were aware of the crimes he was sentenced for. Iacon is not a city that forgets, and too many lurk in its shadows with ill intent." He knew Ratchet was in danger, he knew it in his very spark. He was pushed away only to be brought back. The reasons were no doubt more sinister than any could comprehend.

Sounding a sigh Megatron collected himself, squaring his shoulder struts against the wave of opposition. "I have to know for certain that the city will keep its shadow away from him." There was an apologetic light in his optics as he left the others nervous and unsure of how to handle what may or may not come of this.

. . .

It really did feel like graduation day, getting inducted into the medical service; receiving his titles and honorary annotations, as well as the medical chevron and insignia. Getting the standard paint job had been nice as well, not that Ratchet had particularly been due for one. But looking the part as well as actually _being_ the part was something that made Ratchet's systems preen and a smile move his face plates to near permanent.

There he stood, looking himself over after the official reinstatement. It was a little embarrassing with how much time he's currently spent looking at his reflection, but he couldn't help it.

He was an official, licensed doctor now, complete with the symbols.

The giddiness muddling through him Ratchet was content to ride. Despite the worries of the past days he couldn't be dampened in that moment. The look on Chief Remedy's face as he fastened on his chevron made Ratchet want to break down and sob right there, and he knew his old teacher felt the same after that unprofessional tight hug he gave him after it all. And there were others; colleagues who came to offer him condolences and apologies as well as congratulations. Of course there would forever be those disapproving of his presence even after the courts found no fault in him, but Ratchet was prepared to live with that.

Red digits ran over the secure chevron for the hundred and eighteenth time. It all felt surreal and more than once Ratchet had to correct himself in reminding that this was all very real and very much happening.

"I'm very glad they returned those to you. You look good in them."

Ratchet froze. He didn't need to turn around to know who that voice frequency belonged to, but he did because he didn't like having his back to Senator Proteus.

Mouth open, Ratchet was ready to say something, anything, but something stopped him, just as that something kept his limbs taut and still. The fear that gripped him was the same as ever, all because he knew what this mech could do and has done.

Proteus rose his hands as if a sign that he meant no harm. "I understand why you look at me like that. You must think me a monster after all I put you through."

Ratchet watched him cautiously. He glanced toward the doors to be aware of an escape route, and with a mech such as Proteus there he more than felt the necessity for this rising bout of flight.

"Monster is a kinder name than what I had in mind." Ratchet finally found his voice if only because he knew that he couldn't be caught off guard the same way he had before.

"And what did you have in mind?" Proteus' smile made Ratchet ill in his circuitry. His field made his own try to pull away. There was nothing welcoming about the medic and he wanted to make sure the Senator was very aware of that.

Refusing to reply made Proteus nod. "I admit I was rash in my judgment. It's just Greenlight was everything to me and losing her and our children created a crater inside me." He moves his hands and his form, shifting constantly as if to assure Ratchet this was honest and sincere. It was an act he remembered, one he wouldn't forget. But, damn if Proteus wasn't good at it.

When Ratchet didn't budge, when he held fast and remained indifferent the senator finally shifted back, pulling his extended field away as if in respects to Ratchet's stance.

"I understand the reservations. I was unjust to you and too quick to see you condemned. You have every reason to hold any grudge as you may. I would accept no less after all you've been through. But, I do hope that one day we can put this all behind us."

Ratchet's processor was wracked with confusion. Senator Proteus went on as if this was just some simple misunderstanding in lieu of the supposed uncovered situation. Not once did he bring up a single threat he'd dealt him, both inside and outside of the city. Was he just going to carry on as if those never occurred?

"Doctor Ratchet?"

Pulling his focus away from his internal strife, Ratchet noticed the Senator standing still, his hand held out in a gesture of goodwill. Ratchet glared at the extended servo. He didn't want to shake it, the thought of touching Proteus made his plating crawl, but Ratchet was approaching a desperation to get the mech out of the room and so if a parting etiquette is all he wanted then Ratchet would give him that much.

Stepping forward, Ratchet reached over and gave his hand to the mech. Ready to retract it less than a klik later the medibot never quite got the chance as digits wound around his hand and a strong arm tugged him forward.

Startled and more than alarmed, Ratchet was ready to fight his way out of the Senator's grip hadn’t his other hand came around him, pressing against Ratchet's backside, a hold to keep him still.

"I wonder what it was like," Ratchet heard Proteus speak, his tone low so that no outside source could chance upon their conversation. "Being in the sub levels. Kaon is no moralistic city so I'm curious what you did to survive for so long. Helping disposables?" His chuckle was insulting. "I doubt it."

Ratchet continued to put up some sort of struggle but Proteus would not release his clasped hand nor remove his other from the medibot's back plating. If anything, Ratchet could feel a threatening squeeze the further he continued to fight.

The moment fingers brushed down his chevron and his cheek plates, Ratchet was shaking his helm, rejecting the touch.

"Come now, you must relay your secret. I've been patient long enough and even did you the favor of arranging a means to get you back into the city under the cloud of that prestate act." Proteus' hand cupped Ratchet's jaw strapping, making him look at him. Ratchet's continued silence only made the mech chuckle. "No?"

Finally he let go of Ratchet's helm which the medic took the opportunity to turn away, the very sight of the senator a sore of the utmost degree. There was another minor struggle to pull his hand out of Proteus' grip but it ended in another defeat.

"Was it because of _him_?" Ratchet felt his tank tensing. The tone in Proteus' vocals teased his acuteness. "That revolutionist. Was it because you let him frag you that kept you out of the darker patches?"

Ratchet finally looked back, finally locked his optics with the Senator’s. How could he have known? How could he have . . .?

"What was it like, hm? Was he good, did he make you feel a part of his redundant movement?" Ratchet thought he felt a digit brush across the underside of his lip plates but he couldn't be sure, not when Proteus' heated optics captured his full attention. "I'm sure you're aware of how incriminating that movement is. If others found out about your involvement—"

"I don't care." Ratchet found himself leaning forward, reaching out his field to cling. "I don't care what they'll think or even do to me. Leave the movement out of this. They haven't done anything to illicit a dangerous label."

"That is pending," Proteus replied. "There is a gathering, isn't there? Of city officials to discuss the future of those anti-functionists. You know, I think they have a chance to right their wrongs, but, I think there's also the chance they could collapse, especially if one of their followers happens to magnetize an explosive to their frame and detonate themselves in an act to garner attention."

Ratchet’s optical lights flickered. His core cooled dangerously and the claws of the fear that gripped him were digging in, penetrating his very spark. Right then Ratchet didn’t doubt the Senator’s resources. He knew there would always be someone, some unfortunate ‘bot so used and twisted by him that would beckon to any whim or scenario, even one as extreme as previously explained. And he was right, Proteus was right in that if that happened, setup or not, the officials wouldn’t waste a moment to label Megatron’s movement as terroristic and begin arrests and ostracizing. After that, those indicted will be at the mercy of the ones in control of normalcy.

Ratchet understood quite well what being on that side meant, and it wasn’t anything he wanted for his friends and the ones he loved.

He wanted to cry. Ratchet felt like shaking out of his skeletal frame and breaking down right then. He should have known this second chance wasn’t anything more than a ruse, one too well crafted.

“Of course you know I’m a sympathetic mech.” Ratchet looked at Proteus, actually looked at him. Behind that smile and those pleasing features, the Unmaker himself stared back at him. “When the others wanted you executed, I was the one whom pleaded for your life. When they then settled for empurata, I was the final decision against it.” As if to remind Ratchet of what could have happened he raised his hand, the one he’d been gripping all this time, viewing it. They could have been lost in the ravage of the courts, but in truth those hands and his own helm existed because of Proteus.

In truth, Ratchet was spared to be further tortured. He knew that much. All the foretold punishment for previously rejecting the Senator.

“It would be wise on your part to show me some gratitude, after all I’ve done for you.” Ratchet felt his denta grind at those words, words he’s heard before and understood just as clear. “I didn’t think I’d have to wait this long for some form of reciprocation, but, know I’m willing to wait a little longer. Just a little.” Moving that hand to his mouth, he moved his lip plates against Ratchet’s knuckle gears and then released it with a smile. He held the expression even as Ratchet stumbled out of his embrace, creating a distance far too extreme. “You know, even after your miraculous and historical retrial, I can’t expect the city is ready to willingly come to you. I’ll be curious if you can even hold an office at the ward.” With a shrug he shifted, turning to move back toward the door. He stopped though, leaving with one last comment. “Though, if you’re as compromising as I think you are, and want to hold onto clients, I, myself, am in need of a personal doctor.”

When Proteus left, when Ratchet was the only one in the room, the medibot’s knee joints buckled and he moved to lean his trembling form against the wall before he slid completely to the ground. He felt trapped, absolutely caged. Dread filled him so deeply, reaching sectors of his spark that hadn’t even been touched during his banishment.

Iacon, the city of his rearing, a beloved home he cherished, has now become his crypt.

Ratchet dwelt on that realization for some time in the silence around him. In the end, he decided that if it were to be finalized then he would accept it. What he refused was letting this encroaching end be shared with those he cared most for.

. . .

Orion Pax’s plans for that day was to finish patrols, submit ticketed files, clock out, head home for a quick snack, and then drive to the medical facility to meet up with Pharma, Thunderclash, Jazz, and Ratchet to go and catch a feature film together. Prowl had been invited but evening duties hailed him away. Despite that backset, Orion was still enthused about the upcoming activities. It will be just like old times, and he couldn’t help but feel his spark sing at the thought of finally being a whole group again.

However, nowhere in Orion’s plans after office hours did he intend to run into the head of the anti-functionist movement, especially in his own apartment.

“My apologies. I didn’t intend to startle you.” Megatron help up his hands politely, but Orion simply stood in his doorway, optics bright.

“Intended or not, it certainly happened.” Orion turned to close his doorway, making sure to take the next step to lock his premises as a precaution. This would make it the second time he’s hosted the ex-gladiator within his home, but the first time harboring a potential outlaw with the way things were going. “I didn’t expect you to have the bearings to come into Iacon after everything that’s happened.”

“Are you referring to the march riots, or Ratchet’s recall?” Megatron’s field was defensive, even after coming into a home not his own. In that reply, Orion understood where he’d overstepped.

“I . . .” Orion was quiet for a moment, reeling himself back to think for better words. “I didn’t mean for it to come off like that.” He took a few steps toward his storage. “Do you need anything? I can get you something to eat, or drink.”

“I don’t need anything.” Megatron looked neglected. Even if he denied it, Orion could see he hadn’t been taking care of himself. The stress in his field was no doubt the cause for such unkempt.

“Then what do you need?” Might as well cut to the point.

When Megatron turned those red optics on him, the lighting was off. Orion could see the worry, the fear, and the plea in the paneling. He understood then.

“I watched it all, but, after the trial was over I was left further in the dark.” Even in his shifting field, Megatron, the great speaker, was having trouble extracting the words on his spark. “Is he well?”

Orion nodded. “He’s still getting integrated back into society, but he’s doing well.”

Megatron nodded. He was quiet again. Orion could feel his questions, the ones of why Ratchet had yet to come to him, of why he hadn’t so much as attempted to open a communication line with him. Orion wondered the same, but settled in his current assumptions.

“He’s been busy,” Orion spoke up again, for the sake of them both. “He had to meet with a property manager the other day in regards to the city granting him legalization to a new apartment, and just four days ago Chief Remedy had given him his titles and rank back. Sometimes it takes time for everything to balance out. I’m certain he’ll contact you when all the chaos settles.”

“Do you?” There was skepticism felt within Megatron’s field and seen in the way his facial plating shifted. “Would you think it controversy if the newly inducted doctor were to associate himself with a rebel?”

Orion knew that the upset was simply a mask to cover the larger mech’s anxiety. “Wasn’t it more of a scandal for Cybertron’s finest gladiator to form an intimate relationship with a sentenced sparkling killer?”

Megatron snickered. “How the roles have reversed, haven’t they?” He shook his helm. There was a soft sadness lacing his features and seeping into his field. A reminiscent one. No doubt of the times he cherished with Ratchet.

“Megatron, if you want, I can transfer Ratchet’s new address to you.”

“No.” Megatron looked at him, his features hardening. “I came here, to you, to understand where he was.” Ah, not necessarily location but of state. Orion understood Megatron’s caution, but he could see his longing and it didn’t look good on him. “I don’t want to trouble him.”

“I don’t think you’d do that.” Orion has witnessed the way the two speak of each other, and had more than once seen their interactions. He didn’t believe any could ever go as far as to trouble the other.

The sigh sounded from Megatron. His field dampened, and it was heavy within the room. “The last time I had seen Ratchet it was at the clinic. I left without so much as a farewell. We’d come to a disagreement before and I regret ever falling into it, especially if that is going to be the last interaction I ever get with him.” His arms shifted, almost like a shrug. “I can understand if he roots himself into this city, it was his home before.”

Orion took a step forward, his field reaching out, brushing against Megatron’s. “He was worried you know, when he was taken here. He told us that the Guard just took him out of the clinic, away from his patients, before he could do much of anything. But, you know who he was most worried over? You.”

Megatron perked at the information, more so at the fact of Ratchet’s reactions. “He told you that?”

Orion nodded. “He told us he was worried you’d do something rash.”

Megatron’s smile was slowly coming back. “He knows me well.”

Orion motioned to the mech’s very presence. “That he does. He still loves you, Megatron. I’ve never stopped sensing that in his field.”

Those words lifted Megatron’s field a fraction. “I just hope he knows I feel the same.”

“Why don’t you tell him that yourself?” Megatron looked to Orion warily. “I’m going to meet him and others later this evening. We could pick a place, a secluded one where it’ll be safe to reunite.”

Megatron was quiet, processing it all. After a moment he straightened and nodded. “You’d help me?”

“Of course,” Orion assured. “Ratchet would constantly berate me and tell me that a restless spark wasn’t healthy for a frame, so I think it’s fair to make sure he takes his own advice.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Orion. You’re a good mech.” Megatron inclined his helm in respect and Orion offered the gesture in return.

Seeing that Megatron would risk so much for those he cared most about encouraged Orion’s support and belief that he was indeed the right mech to lead the coming change. He just hoped Megatron’s spark would never change.

With coordinates set, Orion allowed Megatron to remain in his home until the appointed time. Leaving, he drove faster to the facility, eager to tell the others, especially Ratchet of the change of plans. He met Jazz on the courtyard and relayed the happenings and plans just as they moved to meet Thunderclash, Pharma, and Ratchet. However, it was inside Pharma’s office that a disruption hindered cause for excitement.

Currently, Thunderclash was trying to pry Pharma away from a telecommunicator only for said medic to snatch the device up and toss it against the wall, shattering it.

“Damn him then! The fragger is out of his fragging processor!”

Thunderclash, looking as equally frustrated, churned it towards Pharma. “Oh, yeah? And destroying your tech is going to help?”

“What the slag?” Jazz skidded up to them, trying to pry himself in between to create some sort of wall. “What’s got you both so fried?”

It was Pharma whose heated glare met Orion’s. “Ratchet’s going to enter Senator Proteus’ employment!”

“Again?” Jazz sounded just as alarmed.

Thunderclash nodded. “I tried talking to him, but he wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t even open his office to me.” He motioned to Pharma. “So, we tried paging him but he cut communications as soon as he knew it was Pharma.”

“That glitch, that absolute glitcher!” Pharma leaned, frame tense. “Ah! Why is he doing this?”

“He can’t,” Jazz said. “He just can’t. Not after all that slagger did to him. I mean, did he just forget it all when he was away?”

“No.” Everyone turned to Orion. “No, there’s more to it. There has to be. We just . . . we just have to find out what.”

“Good luck.” Thunderclash was shaking his helm, field riddled with gripping worry. “He won’t see us.”

Orion understood, but still. “Let me try.”

The only reason Orion was even remotely successful in seeing Ratchet was for the fact the medibot was just leaving his office. Kit in hand, he was quickly locking the room by the time Orion bounded around the corner.

“Ratchet!” Their optics met briefly and in that moment Orion swore he saw the look of agony swirling in those lights. It struck against his spark chamber, especially when Ratchet turned, averting his gaze and twisting until he was walking away. Orion only chased until he was beside him.

“They told you, didn’t they?” Ratchet sounded as if he were gritting his denta, and Orion couldn’t tell if it was over the fact of his choice or an upset over Thunderclash and Pharma disclosing his decision.

“Regardless of that, Ratchet, what are you doing?” Orion moved to keep up with the smaller whose pace was hurried as if trying to leave the facility as quickly as possible, or maybe even the ones inside behind.

“It’s my business, not yours.” Ratchet touched a control panel, calling for a lift. The moment it came, Orion only joined him in the compartment.

“Like the pits it isn’t our business,” Orion pressed. “We didn’t work as hard as we did to fight for your innocence against that mech only for you to come back to the city and just, just return to him.”

“Again, it’s my business.” Ratchet wasn’t looking at him. He stared straight at the doors, an urgency for them to open stressed through his field.

“Then why?” The doors opened and Ratchet once more sprung out, intent to leave Orion behind, but he followed. “Is everything you have now so bad that you’d go back to working for _him_?”

They were out in the courtyard now, just paces away from the road. But Ratchet stopped. He stopped, but didn’t turn.

The next moment, Ratchet was turning. He looked at Orion. The look in his optics reminded him of . . .

“No,” Ratchet said. “It’s perfect, and so, so good. But you see, that’s what’s _wrong_.” He shook his helm. There was regret in his field, but it wouldn’t move away, nor that look in his optics, that look of pending doom. “Do you think it all happened for our sake? For the ones who were beat by the judicial system without a spare thought for our truth? No, even this good is held for a price. A price I _have_ to pay.”

Orion wasn’t sure if he was understanding Ratchet perfectly, but the clairvoyance he was receiving wasn’t sitting well with him. “Ratchet, what . . . did he say something to you?”

Ratchet shook his helm, sounds huffing out, frustrated and bitter sounds. He turned, looking back to the road. Orion knew he was ready to run.

“Megatron came to me.” The medibot stalled. Slowly, he turned his helm and looked back at Orion. “Cycles ago. He came into this city and met me to ask for you.” Those optics shifted. Orion could see longing, the same look in Megatron’s panels. “He told me he was worried; you haven’t come back to him or even attempted to open a call. For as long and as much as I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so distraught, and he’s troubled, Ratchet, troubled over his last parting with you.” Orion saw the recollection in Ratchet’s optics. He could see the medic shift, he could see him sink further into a rising regret. “What am I going to tell him, Ratchet? What do you want me to tell him?” He motioned to the smaller mech and then toward the road, the one that would take him to the place he was trying to stop him from going to. “I can’t tell him that. Don’t make me.”

They stood there, staring at one another, letting time pass by without a care. Orion could see Ratchet, he could see his very spark. He could see the trouble, the agony, the despair, the absolute struggle. And all Orion wanted to do was let Ratchet know he didn’t have to fight this alone. Instead, he said—

“Ratchet, don’t go.”

Orion watched the struggle’s end. Ratchet turned, pulled his field away from his and glared at the road. “I have to do this for you, and for Megatron. Tell him to leave this city. Tell him to stay away.”

Ratchet transformed and drove off.

Orion was at a loss for words. Words he couldn’t relay to the others when he returned to them, nor to Megatron when the expectant mech stood at the appointed meetup, hoping to see a certain ‘bot alongside Orion as he came to him.

“Could Ratchet not come?” Megatron looked more than disappointed.

Orion felt his tank churn and his core cool to near extreme temperatures. “He . . . he didn’t . . .” A hard sigh shook Orion’s frame as he took a seat on a nearby bench. The park was located in a less trodden sector of the city. Despite its serenity, too many citybots passed the place over in favor of speeding down the highways; a reason Orion had found it a perfect place to hide away Megatron’s presence.

“What’s wrong?” Megatron’s tone deepened, a push to urge Orion to speak.

Turning, Orion met Megatron’s accusing gaze. The mech was close, waiting. “Ratchet won’t be coming.”

There was a worry seeping out of Megatron. “Why?”

“He took a job with Senator Proteus.” Orion expected Megatron’s reaction, he expected the startle, the shifting, and the heavy press of his field as it flared out in upset.

“Will you open your intake and tell me _why_?” Megatron’s tone was harsh and demanding.

“I would like to, Megatron, I really would, but even I don’t understand why he did it.” Orion’s answer wasn’t good enough for Megatron, of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t even good enough for Orion, himself.

“You’re telling me that that _fragger_ who took everything from Ratchet because he couldn’t get his spike wet has now somehow appealed to him that Ratchet would willing return to him?” Megatron’s denta were grit, the snarl heavy on his face and his tone. His optics were bright and frightening. Orion could completely understand why many of his past opponents didn’t like looking at the mech in the optics.

“I don’t know if it’s willing.” Orion couldn’t believe it was. He just couldn’t.

“It isn’t!” Orion turned to see Megatron twisting himself, walking away.

Standing, Orion followed. “Where are you going?” From squared shoulder struts, to clenched fists, he could see the tension, feel it as well.

“I’ve never met him, but tonight seems like as good a night as any.” The growls from his vocals only further disturbed Orion to the point he had to lean forward and reach out, grabbing Megatron by the arm to cease his movement.

“You can’t!” Orion pressed, but he noticed the look Megatron was giving him, as if he was disgusted that one such as himself had touched him, had dared to try and stop him.

Yanking his arm out of Orion’s strong grasp, Megatron leaned forward. His field threatening and more than imposing, even against a friend. “If that is your best attempt against me then I can see why you couldn’t stop Ratchet.”

Orion looked immensely offended. “At least I tried! You, you just left. You left Ratchet when you swore you’d defend him and now he’s here, he’s here and Proteus has him and it’s because of _you_. And now you want to go—do what?—kill him? And how is that going to help but get you killed and put your followers, and Ratchet, into target scopes?”

Harsh, and more than uncouth, but true. Orion Pax realized he could have kept himself better and worded things differently, but the affect was the same. Megatron was quiet, convicted, and Orion knew it.

Megatron shifted uncomfortably. Stress fell off of him in waves as well as anger, and frustration, and more than anything there was the deepest of regrets. “You’re right. All of it. You’re absolutely right, Orion. I regret all of those things. But, if there is one thing I won’t regret it’s getting the chance to kill that bastard.” Fists were clenched again, the need to use those strong hands was prevalent and all that was stopping Megatron from giving into that need was the young mech standing before him.

“Like he’ll give you the chance.” Orion hated himself for being as impressed as he was, but he had to admit it; Proteus was tactical. “I’ve more than once underestimated him. I don’t want you to do the same.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?!” Megatron’s voice echoed, and the quiet that followed pressed down on them both. “Am I just supposed to let him have Ratchet? You can’t ask me to do that. You. Can’t.”

Orion’s known only a few endurae in his life, none as close in relational status to observe so close, but seeing Megatron right then and the state he was in, he could understand how it changed a ‘bot. The silver mech was always an upright and strong figure but before Orion he looked broken, he looked desperate and more than ready to pit himself against the entire planet. Orion couldn’t imagine what he was feeling inside his spark. Then again, there was no doubt Ratchet felt the same.

“Stay strong.” Megatron looked at Orion with the most miserable optics. “Keep your helm, your spark. I can’t speak for your bond, but I know I still felt Ratchet’s love for you even as he left. But . . . you’ll do no one any good here. Leave Iacon until it’ll see you. Just as I trusted you, trust me, us. We’ll see to Ratchet and I promise you this: if Proteus does any more harm to him, I will be the one to take the bastard out.”

Even with Orion’s word, there was discontent inside Megatron’s field. He nodded though. “Don’t think I leave in peace. Far from it. I will refuse until he is safe back in my arms. But know that I’ll leave to reorganize and push back. I will return to this city, sooner if you fail in your part. And when I do, Orion, it’ll be with any army.” He didn’t elaborate further, leaving his true meaning left to interpretation, one Orion Pax didn’t need to process further into. It was now his duty to ensure that coming army had no reason to fight.

. . .

Walking away from Orion and the others had been one of the hardest things Ratchet has ever done in his existence. Leaving Megatron behind had been the hardest.

Ratchet was a wreck when he pulled up to Senator Proteus' estate. And he sat there in the driveway trying and failing to stop the tremors and the sobs wracking his core. It took more than a few moments of debate amongst himself to shape up and do what he was there to do. The internal struggle wore him down only more than he needed right then, and with his strength even physically failing, Ratchet fretted over his performance.

"Lord Proteus said to expect you." The Senator's head of estate looked at Ratchet with disapproving optics the moment he walked into the foyer, but his own opinions were suppressed in order to follow his duty to his master.

With a wave, he ushered Ratchet into his office to file information and seal signatures for secured employment. Sitting there, filling out all those requirements felt like an eternity, but perhaps not as much as walking into the main lounge room had.

Nostalgia hit Ratchet like acid rain. While this section was not a part of the concubinage wing, he had occupied this room a few times before, long ago, with Greenlight for a brunch or two. Memories of her accompanied, and he suppressed the pain in order to hide it from the one responsible for its creation.

Senator Proteus sat in a status chair, seemingly observing the city from the window spans. He turned when they entered, a smile pulling his features.

"Ah, you're here." He stood, approaching his chief of staff and Ratchet. He nodded to the other mech and said, "It feels like a quartex since my last refuel, get the kitchen to prepare me something, and make sure it's doubled, I want to make a good impression on my company." Optics flickered toward Ratchet just as Proteus' COS bowed and left.

The silence that followed was unnerving, at least to Ratchet.

"So, I was thinking you start with my wrist rotators." Proteus shifted into a lounging couch, pedes kicked up, and frame finding the relaxation Ratchet couldn't. "Momus means well, but that son of a retrochip has one slag of a handshake." Proteus was chuckling, shaking his hand as if he felt some kind of pain. Ratchet highly doubted the mech was even capable.

Another short silence persisted until Ratchet blinked out of his fret. Putting down his kit on an accent table, he moved through the selection.

"Is there any routine or perimeters your past medic took that I may be aware of?" Ratchet tried to keep to himself and his work. He wanted this as professional as possible despite knowing better. Taking out a needle tweezer, he then moved to grab hold of the Senator's extended wrist.

"None that I can think of." Proteus tone held a smile, his field fluctuating with mirth. "Of course given the predicament, we can always create a new routine."

Ratchet didn't reply. He didn't need to. He focused his attention on gears that simply needed decluttering and lubrication. Afterwards he eagerly announced his finish.

"Wow, that was fast." Proteus grinned as he maneuvered his wrists, clenching and unclenching hands out of necessity testing. "Say, do you think you could manage fixing an old ribal abrasion that I've been carrying with me for a millennia? My old doctors wouldn't bother with it because it doesn't really cause me any pain, but the thing's uncomely."

Ratchet held in the sigh and simply nodded. "I'm here to be of service."

"Great."

The old wound really was a simple fix, but Ratchet understood the hesitation from previous medics. Even he'd advise leaving it alone, but at the moment he was in no such position to deny the Senator anything.

A sander, and a swath of cybernite was all it took to seal up the indent situated on the blue mech's side. A splash of mimicking color helped to further hide any hint of it once being there. As soon as he finished Ratchet pulled away, abhorring each time he was forced to lay his hands on the mech in a none-threatening manner.

"Well, I'll be damn." Proteus sat up, twisting his torso and glancing down at the patched plating. "I feel fresh off the line now." He turned his blue optics to Ratchet then. "You certainly haven't lacked in your skills. I'm feel ashamed that I hadn't made you head household medic sooner." He only shrugged afterwards. "Eh, lost opportunities I won't cry over. You're here now, that's all that matters."

Servants came in then, carrying trays of finely prepared meals. They set up a selection table and then laid every plate down.

"Yes! Fuel." Proteus moved toward the layout and began helping himself. He motioned toward Ratchet. "Come have a helping. I promise my cooks are some of the best on the planet."

Ratchet remained at a distance, intent to keep it. "I'm in no need to refuel."

Proteus shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Ratchet hated waiting on the mech. He hated standing there, watching the object of his torment gouging himself on the luxuries of the planet, paid for in part by sparks who meant nothing to the Senator. The frustration came to the point where Ratchet couldn't take it anymore.

"Am I no longer required?" Proteus paused from a cube, turning his gaze on the medic. Ratchet forced himself to speak again. "Are my services further needed?" He wanted to leave, to return to his apartment and lock himself inside and just collapse in on himself.

Proteus' smile was sharper as he finished his cube, his optical lights swirling with intent as he moved, approaching Ratchet. "Why the rush? You can't possibly have other patients waiting for you back at the facility."

"But I do have duties to perform," Ratchet excused, anything to likely entail an early leave.

"And you can't shirk those just to spend a little bit more time with me?" Proteus reached out taking a hold of Ratchet's hands. He smiles, suggestive, and then he brings those digits to his mouth and moves his lip plates against them. Ratchet tries to repress the shudder but he can't and worries over Proteus' reaction. If the senator was offended in any way by Ratchet's obvious repulsion he doesn't make mention of it. Instead he kisses Ratchet's hands again and turns to nuzzle them.

"There, there. It's not so bad, hmm?" Proteus rumbles in his chassis, tugging Ratchet forward. Ratchet tries not to completely collide with the other's frame and does his best to keep some measure of distance apart. His effort doesn't go unnoticed. Proteus simply tugs once more and Ratchet cringes when their chest plating bumps.

There is a startle when Ratchet hears movement. He turns his helm, looking at staffbots, all cleaning up the array of prepared fuel. They didn't at all bat an optic their way. None at all cared.

A digit against his chin turned Ratchet's helm back. He looked at Proteus once and then averted his gaze when he felt hands wander down plating they never had before.

"Don't fret, they're just doing their job," Proteus said, taking notice of Ratchet's unease to the presence of the staff. His hand rested against his pelvic plating then, digits teasingly dipping into seams. "Just as you are."

Ratchet felt like someone had shot a sonic cannon into his tank. Having the Senator say exactly what he already knew just made him implode. By the Allspark! Ratchet just wanted to go to the Well already!

From getting groped by the last mech on Cybertron that he wanted and then listening to the staff moving about to clean up the area, Ratchet was more than a little stressed. And Proteus could tell.

"Relax, Ratchet. I have no intention on hurting you." Proteus' vocals hitched with assurance, but it was useless to a 'bot whose already been hurt by the mech. Redundant misplaced comfort. When Ratchet refused to loosen Proteus reacted with a laugh. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

Without warning, Ratchet felt lip plates against his helm. Initial reaction had him flinch away, but he couldn't go far when arms wound around him, keeping him still for another kiss that fell against his neck cabling. The mouth was more than gentle, but that still didn't prevent Ratchet from shaking.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?" With lower pitches, Proteus moved his mouth down Ratchet's necking. A kiss was planted against his collar structure following. "Neither was this." Another kiss to his shoulder strut. "Or this." Then those clinging hands moved, Ratchet felt them cup his face, turning him to look up at the mech molesting him. Leaning down, Proteus rubbed his mouth against Ratchet's. Against moving lips and a prodding glossa, Ratchet tried to refuse, but when those hands tightened ever so slightly, Ratchet understood the threat very well.

Senator Proteus tasted like highgrade and engex. Too rich for Ratchet, but one that he was forced to intake as the mech shifted, deepening the kiss and keeping hold of Ratchet for as long as he wanted.

"Mmm, I'll get you to respond yet." Proteus pulled away with a swipe of his glossa and then pulled Ratchet, shifting them both before those tugging hands flattened against the medibot's torso and pushed.

Ratchet stumbled back, his legs hitting the lounge couch before he teetered over and fell against it. Bright optics watched as Proteus' form came over him, straddling and hindering any idea of returning to his pedes. Proteus descended in another kiss and just as he leaned his weight, Ratchet brought his hands up, trying as he might to keep some semblance of a separation. It was only useful for a moment, but with another shift, as Proteus pushed Ratchet's thighs apart and nestled himself between, those forceful hands came and took Ratchet's restricting servos and pushed them beside him while he kissed his mouth dry.

Ratchet’s reluctance to participate was a likelihood of his discomfort, but he found it extremely difficult to even attempt to arch against Proteus or sigh out some pleasant sound to his ministrations. For a mech whose concubinage is swollen, he was in a position to understand fully well how to pleasure a berthmate, but Ratchet found no appeal to those hands rubbing his thighs, nor attraction to skilled lips that nibbled bio lights and tender wiring. There was no coaxing interface panels open, Ratchet simply manually opened them, as well as activated his lubrication cycle. Where Proteus looked immensely pleased by Ratchet’s submission, the medibot knew there was no means of him truly giving himself to him, not in the way he has before.

“Nhm.” Ratchet bit his glossa. Feeling Proteus push three large digits into him at once took him by surprise, but he held back any retort.

“Hm?” Proteus looked down at him, as if in consideration. “Did that hurt? I thought you’d be used to a wider stretch given your previous partner.” He smile was snickering, a fourth digit added anyway. “That’s just fine. I intend to take my time with you and enjoy every little thing.”

Ratchet was stressing over that statement. He didn’t want this to last any longer than necessary. Not at all. So, in turn he reached out, tugging at Proteus’ hand, pulling his fingers out of him and then wrapping his legs around his pelvic structure, tightening and rubbing hot plating over his still concealed spike. Proteus just observed him for a moment before the actions turned him toward the quicker unification.

Leaning down, Proteus pressed his frame down, closer than Ratchet wanted, but it was necessary. All of it was. “Alright, we can go fast too.”

Proteus didn’t hurt Ratchet, but damn if that mech didn’t have libido. Ratchet was brought through three minor overloads before Proteus even reached his first. He seemed more intent to thrust, to push his spike into every crevice of Ratchet’s valve until he was certain the very shape of his phallic appendage would be indented into the medibot. And even after that, Proteus insisted on further pleasure.

Ratchet tried. He tried his damnedest to pull himself away. Tried to tuck himself into the corner compartments of his CPU, but Proteus was always touching him, always kissing him when he didn’t want him too, always digging his fingers into seams that just tipped him into an unwanted overload. And the positions, Primus, Proteus was demanding and constantly wanted to shift after every round. There really was only so much Ratchet could do—or even wanted to do—on a lounge couch.

Their last round, Proteus had shifted until Ratchet was seated on his lap. He pushed into his wet valve already full of his transfluid, and from there he expected the medic to ride him. Ratchet was more than loathing of himself by that time, and after realizing Proteus wasn’t going to be the one moving them along anymore, he fell into a deeper depression.

Finding some leverage with bent knees, Ratchet moved, sliding up and down. He didn’t like the fact that he was facing the senator and so mostly glared at the wall behind him, but caressing fingers moved him to look at that face, the one that was responsible for where he was right then. And then Ratchet was tugged closer, the other deciding it was better kissing him than staring at him.

Hands settled on his hips, holding him there as he moved and they remained there even as Proteus’ overload splattered inside Ratchet’s canal. Signs of low energy levels flared across his display and Ratchet leaned into them all, even the mech he still straddled. He hated that Proteus didn’t leave right then, instead he held him, his spike still nestled inside his valve for a longer moment.

He said things, words of praise, words Ratchet didn’t remember because he didn’t want to. What he wanted to remember was when the Senator pulled out of him, when he moved away, when he issued him leave, because when he did Ratchet was out of that estate faster than he had been when the city of Iacon had banished him.

It was the moment he got back to his apartment that he realized he had left his tool kit. Not that it mattered, he’d be returning inevitably. He was Senator Proteus’ official personal medibot. Such an honor.

The wash racks was Ratchet’s first destination after entering his apartment. It was there he stayed all night, trying to clean himself, but no matter how much he tried he couldn’t seem to get the Senator off or out of him. And it frustrated him to the point he began chipping paint away, hands denting into spray nozzles, blaming their inadequacy for the failed task.

As soon as he had tossed the nozzles down, Ratchet’s clenched fists uncurled digits so they could lay against his lips as those awful and pathetic sounds left his mouth. Those sounds that echoed off the walls even amongst the spray of cleansing fluid. The following echo was of Ratchet’s frame sliding down to the floor after he shook over the realization of what he’d done, of what he’d chosen for himself.

He’d been prepared to live with it, but in the end, Ratchet wasn’t as prepared as he thought he would have been.

. . .

When Ratchet returned to Iacon his friends had hoped he was there to stay. He was. Then they hoped to continue where they had left off and carry on their relationship with him as they always had, but those dreams were dashed when the medic took that controversial job under Senator Proteus.

More than not Ratchet distanced himself from his friends, shutting down any dispute regarding his occupation if they took an evening together. Each one; Orion Pax, Thunderclash, Jazz, Pharma, and even Prowl attempted to casually converse during separate times, but they were excused away. In the end, Ratchet isolated himself and no amount of coercion or plea would get the doctor out for even an afternoon cube.

His friends were having trouble dealing with these latter developments.

"He was so much more reasonable when he was banished." Thunderclash leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and optics glaring up at the ceiling of the facility's mess hall.

Despite his crude comment, no one combated it.

"You think that damn senator's been telling him to do this?" Jazz swung his helm toward Orion. When the mech hadn't answered he jerked his leg out and nudged him. "What say you? You've been talkin' to Megatron, right? How's he handling all of this?"

"Probably as good as we are." Pharma sounded a pitiful sigh. He'd been staring at his fuel for as long as they'd all come together and slouched at the table. All too troubled to focus on menial things.

Expectant optics shined on Orion Pax.

Straightening, Orion considered his words. "You know . . . Megatron's leading an entire movement, one that consists of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of faithful followers. I don't think that the Senator's employment and Ratchet's reclusion are happenstance. I believe it has its purpose, one that is just starting to take effect. I'm not sure if a lot of you are aware but Ratchet laid his signature in a lot of Megatron's writings. Have any of you read his latest publications?"

The others were silent but it was Prowl who shifted and broke it. "I have. There's definitely a difference."

Orion nodded. Very. It was clear Megatron expressed himself flawlessly through his words and those of late told of his upset, of his sparkache and frustration. Rambles of injustice plagued his paragraphs and accusations of thievery were more than blunt, a voice less kind to those living level than ever before. And the unrest that backed those writings was unsettling.

Leaning forward, Orion clasped his hands, resting elbow joints against his knee rotators. "I don't need to be the one to remind everyone about Ratchet and his intimate relationship."

Pharma made a face and Jazz sounded a noise, but other than that, they nodded, confirming their once suspicions.

"Then I will be the one to tell you that they were bonded."

"Bonded? Thunderclash sat upright. "When?"

"Sometime before the movement's bad paint," Orion relayed. "Given that you understand what a bond does to a 'bot."

"You mean to a 'bot whose conjunx is thousands of miles away," Thunderclash commented further. He was the third one to make a face. "Well, that's just brilliant. If the whole damn movement is centered around Megatron then we'll likely have one slag of an issue in the not-so-far future."

Orion's thoughts exactly.

"Then what'll we do?" Jazz flapped his arms, frustration flaring. "Should we just nab Ratchet and get him out of the city? See, now that just sounds strange, especially after we spent so long trying to get him _back_ here."

"All in vain," Pharma drawled.

A silence fell upon them, uncomfortable and too ugly to accept.

"You know . . ." Thunderclash looked at the others. "Even considering where we are now I can't say I regret working my aft off for that goal."

Jazz nodded next. "I second that."

Prowl chortled. "Then I'll be the third."

Pharma made a motion, rolling his optics. In the end he settled for a small, reminiscent, but proud, smile. He nodded. "Yeah, no regrets."

Orion Pax smiled wider than any of them, absolutely proud and honored to call the lot his good friends. "You're right. So, I think it's fair we not give up; on ourselves, on Megatron, on especially Ratchet, not when we hadn't before."

Standing up, Orion made to depart.

"Where are you going?" Prowl asked, getting to his pedes as well.

"To see my sources and perhaps get my helm wrapped around what we're actually up against."

With Orion's departure he drove to meet a senator.

"Was this his plan from the beginning?" Orion Pax hadn't meant to let his tone rise so inadequately but Dai Atlas had never minded his honest expressions before. "Is Senator Proteus doing this because he knows what he can do?"

Dai Atlas sat, pondering all of the information and group speculation he's collected. Pleading optics gazed, looking to the older for a verified reason, an answer and explanation. Something to settle his internal unrest.

"Ratchet has never been as isolated from us as he is now, and I know . . ." Orion collected himself for a moment. "I know he is doing this because he must."

"It has been a pleasure getting to know you, Cadet Pax." Dai Atlas spoke with a slow contemplative tone, each response well-meant and aimed. "In these times of restlessness and disregard I am privileged to find my faith restored in a mech so young." Dai Atlas smiled, nodded, but the expression was gone just as quickly as it came. "But should you ever have been given the chance to come to know and remotely understand Proteus then you might come to the same realization of just how receptive he is."

Orion stood near, too tense to take the offered seat next to Dai Atlas. But from the Senator's own EM field, it was easy to discern he too was struggling with rising as well as pending frustrations.

"This all began as a miniscule offense which Proteus treated in the most reprehensible of ways. You and your friends, especially Ratchet, learned to steer clear of crossing him again, a desired result expected from him. His further ploys to delve deeper, personal damage was both intended and unintended I believe."

Orion cocked his helm. "How so?"

"There was no way Proteus could have foreseen the relationships Ratchet would form. He expected the trauma, the desolation and torment, but he hadn't expected the likelihood of a new beginning or opportunities." Dai Atlas shifted in his seat, leaning forward. He looked weary, mostly over the fact of having dealt with his fellow congressmecha for so long. Orion could say he felt a sympathy for him, though had no desire to take a similar place for empathetic measures. "Proteus keeps to his plans, ensures they are fulfilled, but he can adapt to change so well. Better still, he can divert it." Shaking his helm, Dai Atlas sounded a sigh. "It is truly a shame that your friend had drawn so close to the spark of that movement. His position compromised more than it should and unfortunately Proteus saw that leverage."

Orion understood Dai Atlas' view on the anti-functionist movement. The mech had his worries over it, but never outright condemned it in front of him, however he never spoke kindly of it either. But now, even Dai Atlas was realizing how dangerous it had the potential of becoming.

"It's unfortunate, it truly is, where fate has brought you all." Dai Atlas was quiet for a moment, optics shifting in thought. "As if this might be the necessary to dive into to break down the chaos we've wrought and are unsure of how to tear down."

Shaking his helm, Orion took a step closer, hands waving as if to push away the negativity bounding into the room. "There needs to be no necessary, only amending. My friends and I have been thinking of getting Ratchet out of the city."

"I mean no offense, Orion, but I do not find any faith in your intentions." Hard optics looked toward the younger.

"It is risky considering our positions, yes, but we're not afraid to fight to keep our peoples from tearing each other’s throats out." Orion spoke heavily for himself, but he knew even Jazz, Thunderclash, Pharma, and Prowl felt the same. "And if Ratchet is that middle point then shouldn't we at least try?"

Dai Atlas considered the plan, but the look in his optical paneling told Orion that the senator wasn't quite enthused about his devotion.

"After he returned to Iacon there was a quick sever. Even after all this time you believe he holds any more influence over the unrest that's been gaining friction?" Dai Atlas shook his helm in disagreement. "You have a higher chance at being the harbinger than the emancipator. You've pushed the boundaries already, Orion. I would advise you to not do so again, especially since your friend is in no position to reach out to do the same."

"But Ratchet will, I know he will," Orion said. "If we could help, get him out of the city, then I know that he'd be able to find his voice again. You said so yourself; Proteus has his hands in everything, even on Ratchet's will. And I can't just stand by and let Ratchet use himself as a shield just so we can live in peace. Because if living in peace means living without Ratchet then it's no peace to me."

Dai Atlas was watching him, listening to his responses, and observing the way his field opened to truth and passion. Orion Pax, so young and rightly noble.

"You may have gotten the pleasure to know me, Lord Dai Atlas, but you've never gotten to know Ratchet or even Megatron. Where you faith falters mine thrives in believing that this is not the end to accept. Even if it means the city, the very planet, turn its back on me and my friends, I would rather it do that then tear itself apart with all of this discontent. And like it or not, Ratchet has the ability to play a major part in that steadiness given that Megatron is the pillar. He'll either topple over and let our society break apart or he'll keep it steady while further pillars rise up alongside him."

Dai Atlas smiled. Laced with pride, but ending with solace. "I admire your resolution, Orion, I do, but despite the right goals I cannot see any means to obtain them, given Ratchet's current predicament."

Shoulder struts shifted. Orion looked annoyed, ready to argue his belief further. "No matter where Ratchet is now, there is always a way to fight against the shackles. And I know that if we tug on those chains, so will he."

Dai Atlas still didn't look convinced and it perturbed Orion. "Even though he's carrying Proteus' sparkling right now?"

Orion paused, trying to process just what he'd been told. "What?"


	11. A Predestined End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys soooo much for all those reviews and thoughts/reactions! I loved every one! I hope you enjoy this big boy just as much! (^-^)/

Pharma just wanted to go home. Already cycles past his original shift, he'd fallen behind on three patients' prognosis reports and in the middle of it all took Ambulon's shift so he could off to a familial emergency. The fragger probably didn't even have close family, and yet there Pharma was, stuck until the janitorial 'bots crept out of the dark recess of the facility's closets. What a day.

He should be locking his office and walking out those front doors, instead Pharma was trudging toward the monitor room to take one last view of internal pixels and file them into their respective folders. He honestly hadn't expected to find anyone inside the department when he entered, but the familiar sound of a spark fluctuating alerted him to the occupant still present.

Bright optics turned to a fellow medibot, and not just any colleague, a dear, dear friend, one Pharma hadn't gotten the chance to actually see in the metal for more than he'd like to recollect.

"Ratchet?" The moment Pharma took a closer step, the name falling past his lip plates, the other started, twisting to look at him with just as bright optical lights. Pharma hadn't seen the medic move so fast, but as soon as he noticed him he pulled the transducer away from the crevices of his chassis plating and struggled to slip the device back into its casing.

However, Pharma had seen, or more importantly, heard everything.

Startled optics turned toward the monitors, especially the one Ratchet was situated closest to. Moving to view it properly was a challenge given that Ratchet was purposely standing in his way. But that didn't matter, Pharma wasn't as ignorant as others like to take him for.

"Ratchet, was that . . .?" Optics zoned, mostly on Ratchet. "Are you sparked?"

Within the next klik Ratchet had dropped the transducer he'd been holding behind his frame, and his frame hunched over, trembling. Hands rose to cover his mouth to further hide the sobs tumbling out of his intake. Pharma started at the reaction and instantly he pushed closer, hands coming on his friend whilst his field reached out to encase them in secure comfort.

"Hey, hey, it's fine. I'm not going to say anything against you." Pharma then realized how long it's actually been since he's had the opportunity to hold Ratchet, and now with him shaking, pressed against him, it made the aerial cling tight, damning all pending projects he'd originally come into the department for.

With Ratchet's reaction and his current distraught so pungent in his field, Pharma can't honestly say he's seen this sort of reception over the news of a carry often. With a descending frown, Pharma pulled back only to look down at his friend, his hands still cradling, still clinging.

"Is it the Senator's?" Ratchet didn't say anything, but Pharma felt the way Ratchet's frame stuttered, and the presence of tension seeping out into his field was answer enough. "Does he know?"

There was no further answer. Instead, Ratchet slowly moved himself away from Pharma's hold. He turned, rubbing his face plate. "What am I going to do?"

The regret and fright that Pharma heard in Ratchet's pitches hit him in the very spark chamber. So he pressed closer again, his hand tugging Ratchet's shoulder to turn him back to him. "I'm here for you with whatever you want to do. Even if you wanted to termina—"

"No, I can't!" Ratchet's optics stuttered briefly, the shake of his helm was enough to even shake Pharma off. "I can't. He'll . . . he'll . . ."

"It's fine, I understand." Pharma held his hands up in surrender. He wasn't going to push, not just yet. Instead he glanced over toward the monitor and examined it. By the looks of it, Ratchet hadn't finished the proper scan. So, pulling out a forced smile, Pharma took his hands and guided him over to take a seat on the nearby table. "Why don't we finish the scan, hm?"

Reaching down, Pharma took up the transducer. He checked it over briefly before dialing in a few frequencies in the monitor array and pressing closer. The uneasy look on Ratchet's face had to be ignored while he slid the device between opened chassis folds.

Turning, Pharma looked at the images. From Ratchet's spark chamber, nothing seemed amiss and so he slid the device downward. Ah, there it was.

"Already in the gestational chamber." Pharma was at a loss for how long Ratchet had been carrying and apparently had forewent the actually curtesy to tell him, or the others. Looking toward his friend—because yes, they were still friends—he tried to understand. He tried so very hard. "So, when were you going to tell us?"

Despite Pharma's harsher tone, Ratchet didn't shift. His optics were welded to the screen, to the shape of the protoform he carried. Even then, he looked lost, like he wasn't there. "When I was able to accept it myself." That was best answer. Pharma had to understand that.

Shaking his helm, Pharma put the device away, his own optics looking at the screen. Thank Primus there was only one. One was still too many for him to accept though, and he was certain Ratchet felt exactly the same.

"Why?" If Ratchet didn't want to look at him then Pharma would. "Why did you do it?" For all that was sacred and not, Ratchet was carrying that bastard's offspring. Primus damn it, why?

They sat there in silence for who knows how long, but Pharma wasn't leaving without an answer, a real one. And when Ratchet gave, "I didn't have a choice," Pharma shot back with, "Like slag you didn't!"

Ratchet took a little more time to respond next. He didn't look at Pharma, instead kept his optics cast down whilst his hand rose, digits running along chassis plating that shielded the cherished chamber which currently housed a growing new life. He should be happy, be proud, and so should Pharma. Their culture always celebrated new sparks, but, given the circumstances, it was understandable why neither sought the means of celebration.

"You're right, I guess." Ratchet took a short glance toward Pharma and then once toward the screen that had mapped out his gestational chamber and the form inside it. He bowed his helm then. "There was a choice, and I made it. I chose my friends; the ones I loved." He shook his helm, denta grit. Repulsion flared in his field and Pharma wondered if it was at himself. "I don't want to think on the things he could have done to you, the things he threatened to do to you. If it's just me then I'd choose this path again." He was looking at Pharma now, optics bright, hard, and Pharma was taken aback.

"Are you kidding me?" Pharma felt his own jaw hinges strain, hands clung together whilst digits curled. He didn't at all hide his rising upset. Let Ratchet feel it, he was about to hear it. "You're telling me that you took his employment, his harassment, his fragging spike, and his bastards for us? What, you expect me to believe all of that cyberslag?"

"I don't care what you believe."

"Fine by me." Pharma stood, leaning forward. He felt the urge to slug him right in the faceplates and might have hadn't the fragger been carrying. "Because as far as I see it you're a coward, one whose betrayed the trust of his closest friends and even his own sparkmate. Dammit, Ratchet, what would Megatron say if he finds out?" When, more than likely. One can't really hide a sparkling for long.

Ratchet finally looked at him then and Pharma saw it; the fear in his optics, the disdain for the little one he carried by the way digits curled between chassis plating. His field twisted with agony. So . . . he still felt the guilt of it all.

"Please." Ratchet was curling, his hands wringing, his limbs taut. "Please, don't tell him. Just . . . don't tell him anything about me."

Pharma had more things to say, he had excellent comebacks that would cut straight into the spark chamber, but the sudden wave of Ratchet's grief over the mention of his conjunx halted him. Now, the grief was unbearable, and suddenly, Pharma was understanding just why Ratchet had done everything. He was scared.

Reaching forward, Pharma took Ratchet's tight hands into his own and tried his best to rub away the mounting stress. Kneeling, he looked up at his friend. If there was one thing Pharma hated more than seeing Ratchet distance himself it was seeing him in pain. And he clearly was.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, or Thunderclash, or Jazz, or even Orion, but we're here for you. We always have been. Knowing that you're doing this to yourself, even if it's for our sakes, it hurts, Ratchet. It hurts because it feels like you don't trust us like you used to." Pharma moved his lips, trying to find the right words to convey next. "We've been your friends since the beginning of the Academy days, damn, Ratchet, that should account for something. And now you've got an Endurae. If we feel this disposed, what do you think he feels like?"

Pharma felt Ratchet squeeze his hands back. "You think I don't reflect of this? All of it?" Shaking his helm, his vocals began hitching, static crackling his frequency. "I hate being there. I hate having to go into the Heights, into his home. I hate being with him. I hate that I'm carrying . . ."

"It's not too late." Pharma tugged, giving Ratchet's frame a shake, just to make him look at him. "Damn Senator Proteus. Right now, I can get you out of the city. I can get you into Kaon." Despite Pharma's assurances and enthusiasm, he felt no sign of a return in Ratchet's field.

There was a smile on Ratchet's faceplates. Something bittersweet, with the bitterness overriding it. "No. It's too late for that."

"Why?" Pharma was squeezing Ratchet's hands back, hoping to hurt him just to make him see. "Why, because you're trying to protect us? The pits, we can defend ourselves. Is it because you're under Proteus' contract? Slag it all and quit. Is it because of what Megatron might think of you? I might question your choice in partners, but even I don't doubt for a second he'd be the first to take you back. What is it, is it because you're carrying another's sparkling? I don't give a damn, it hasn't changed my love for you and I doubt it'll change that crazy revolutionist's." Pharma tugged again. "Ratchet, please. We haven't given up on you, don't you give up on yourself."

Pharma and Ratchet remained wrapped in each other's embrace for cycles. It was Pharma who made dejections when Ratchet pulled away, but the new day was coming and both had duties, duties that Pharma was unwilling to let Ratchet go to. In the end, he had no choice.

It was Pharma who decided to relay his findings to the others despite Ratchet's wish that it remain between them. And just like Pharma, the others reacted in kind.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Jazz's field was sinking and twisting in upset, though the highest happened to be Thunderclash's.

"That fragger. That absolute abomination." He was shaking his helm, scarlet optics bright. "How could he . . . that is just offensive. Ratchet's gestational chamber is property of the medical organization. I don't know, can't he charge the fragger with misuse of governmental equipment?"

"The Council and Senate have been the government," Prowl added. "What I want to know is why Proteus would do this after everything he's done to tarnish Ratchet's name. To take him back in and even spark him, isn't that self-destructive?"

"Knowing Proteus, he'll find a way to coat it over and come off as some sort of charity," Thunderclash muttered with disdain. He glanced toward Orion. "What about you, Orion? You're awfully quiet during this revelation."

"It's because I already knew."

Pharma rose a browplate. "And you just wanted to wait until we found out on our own or something?"

Orion looked remorseful, but that didn't change the others' standing. "I didn't know how to tell you. I'm still trying to come to terms with it myself. I'm just as upset."

"Upset?" Thunderclash nodded, rocking forward. "Upset is when sworn friends continue to keep things from each other. Primus below, are you turning into Ratchet or something, Orion? It's getting a little insulting."

Again, Orion's regret peaked in his field. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"You're the one in contact with Megatron, have you told him?" Pharma questioned. Primus knows how he'd react.

Orion's prolonged silence was answer enough. When he heaved frustration in his vocals, they understood. "How can I? Have any of you seen what's been happening with the movement? Megatron is upset enough and it's showing in his following. Don't you think this will tip him over the edge?"

"But aren't we his friends?" Jazz pointed out. "Thunderclash is right, it's not fair to keep things, even from him."

"I had a patient who wanted a termination," Pharma said, speaking up. "There was nothing wrong medical-wise, and you know the statistic of consensual protoform termination is extremely low due to carrier coding, but this was only the case with my patient because he had a partner, they were in the process of becoming conjunx endura, however, an old flame made their way back into his life and well, he ended up sparked. A klutch of three." Pharma paused, shaking his helm. "They weren't even bonded and yet when his partner actually found out . . . You've all heard about the Nightpike case, right?"

Jazz perked up. "You mean the one who murdered his partner? I didn't even know he'd been carrying."

Pharma straightened. "He wasn't. I had terminated the sparks beforehand, but the very next day he was found offline." Shifting, he looked at his friends with hard optics. "I can't speak for the likes of Megatron, but, they're bonded. I don't know what would happen if he found out."

Silence encased them. All processing the same wavelength.

"If the right time comes, then I think you should tell him," Thunderclash said, looking mostly toward Orion. "If it does come."

All wondered if that time would ever come. If they weren't going to tell him, then it was highly likely he'd find out another way. A harsher way.

. . .

"Primus, they actually approved it all." Senator Proteus plopped in the lounge seat adjacent to Dai Atlas. He looked overly dramatic, but there was a reason for it. "Who allowed those idiots into office anyway? Should probably do with better."

"I believe that was the citizens," Dai Atlas spoke up, having no worry now that the other Senator's optics were upon him.

Proteus snorted, leaning back and then motioning for nearby servants to off to get him fuel. "Citizens, what are thy good for anyway? Not like they know what's best. That's our job."

"If you're suggesting to change our voting system I think you'd have to run that by the Council first." Dai Atlas kept his field to himself despite Proteus' imposing presence.

There was laughter and Dai Atlas felt comradery in Proteus' field, for now. "I'd rather keep work back in the Imperium. Let me enjoy this too-short break, will you?"

Dai Atlas rolled his shoulders. "You're the one carrying it over. Is it really that frustrating? You and Decimus, and even Crosscut seem to be the ones worried most."

"I'm not worried," Proteus dejected.

"There, it's not hard to be. It'll die out eventually." Dai Atlas resumed this process pattern to sway those easily swayed. He understood that if the most powerful ignored the movement's growth then it had a chance to survive and thrive, as well that he understood should anything be wrought down against it it would fight for its life.

"You're always full of naivety, Dai Atlas." Proteus was chuckling, shaking his helm, looking toward him as if to scold a sparkling. "Do you honestly believe that movement will just fade away? If so, I must say my respect in regard to your suavity is misplaced. No, even I can see that it's been left alone for too long to suddenly terminate without repercussions. Granted, even if the state denizens appealed to their plea does not mean we have lower our defenses. It's what they want, but we're not simpletons, at least not all of us."

Dai Atlas glared, but hid his opinions to himself. "I thought you wanted to keep work in the Imperium."

The senator laughed. His field friendly enough, and Dai Atlas only reached back in courtesy, but otherwise desired the space he assumed from the majority of his colleagues.

"Well, now, maybe you're onto something, my friend." With a shake of his helm he turned to the approaching staff who offered his requested fuel. "I don't know, I've just been heavy-processed lately."

"I can imagine." Dai Atlas nodded. "What with the upcoming sparkling."

Proteus' optics brightened over the rim of the cube in his hand. When he lowered the container his smile was proud. "I knew it was only a matter of time before the news spread."

"If the others haven't then I want to be the first to offer a congratulations." Dai Atlas inclined himself politely to which Proteus preened at.

"Much appreciation." Proteus nodded in return.

"Though I wonder if I am the first to inquire question in concerns to the carrier." Dai Atlas was impressed that Proteus didn't flinch away from the subject, especially one that struck so personal.

"It's expected," Proteus said in reply. "It looks as crazy as it sounds, I know."

Dai Atlas nodded. "That it does; what with him being the mech who was previously accused of offlining your concubine and litter."

Proteus' smile never faltered. It looked near affectionate, but Dai Atlas was hard pressed the believe it. No, there was likely more pride involved in that lip plate curl than anything else.

"Well, we reconciled, you see; finally saw optic to optic and settled our differences. I even offered him a job at my estate again to prove my forgiveness. I didn't think he'd take the offer, but he did, and, well, one thing led to another. Grief tends to bring 'bots closer together, and that's all I can say the major factor was. Other than that, I'm extremely pleased."

"Taking advantage of regulatory medical property, I see." Dai Atlas was smiling, one to match Proteus'. Judging by the senator's field, he figured his comment nothing but friendly jest.

"Of course. Not that I think they'll mind. Slag, if they make a fuss over one unauthorized use of a gestational chamber then I'll just pay the full price for one." Proteus rolled his optics, shaking his helm, tension rising over the thought of the matter. "It's not like I don't give enough in charity to them as is."

"Your stance is clear enough, but I wonder how the medibot is taking it." Dai Atlas diverted the subject more toward Ratchet. "After all he's felt from you, affection must be hard to accept, and now he's carrying your sparkling. I wonder what he thinks of it all."

"He's complacent enough," Proteus informed, pausing only a moment to chuckle. "You know he's actually creating a fuss over the ability to continue his duties."

"He doesn't want to go on leave?"

Proteus shook his helm. "No. He's all about fulfilling his programs, but you know carrying is just as strong of a programming." He crossed his arms, leaning back. His face scrunched in processed thought. "Trying to get him to settle down and focus on the sparkling is another challenge." He nodded toward Dai Atlas. "You know I'd take care of him, even if he wanted to hang up the medibot programming. I would, I just wish he'd understand that."

Shifting, Dai Atlas stood, ready to head back into the Imperium. Ready to leave the unpleasant conversation. He looked at Proteus in his departing and said, "Well, if there's anyone who can change a mind, it's you."

Even as Dai Atlas left, curious red optics trailed him and once he was vacant from the room, those same optics turned back toward where Proteus lounged, more than interested in the topic that was very much overheard.

. . .

"It has to be Iacon, I will not be moved from my decision."

Optics stared on with wariness. Understandable. It was Barricade who dared ask the pending question.

"Do you think it's a good idea to go there first, after everything that's happened and all? I mean, it makes more sense to hit up places like Polyhex first, or even Tyger Pax. There's still time to travel further north."

Megatron glared. "I said Iacon."

"Barricade's logic isn't misplaced," Shockwave spoke up. Since his arrival he's been silent, observing Megatron's behavior for the most part, but now he was vocalizing his thoughts, ones not on par with the head of those gathered. "It was by a narrow vote that this entire movement wasn't labeled terroristic in nature. If you are to further your influence I would suggest marching in cities that didn't vote against your standing. Iacon was neutral."

"I would listen to your followers, Megatron. They're backing sound logic."

Optics turned just in time to watch forms drop out of the skies. Shutters of engines echoed until silenced as pedes stamped onto the ground, revealing three aerials, each one familiar. There Senator Starscream stood with Thundercracker and Skywarp by his side.

"Senator Starscream." Shockwave inclined his helm politely. "Unusual to see you outside of Vos, or the calling of Iacon for that matter. What brings this visit?"

Starscream stood straight, his smile curling too sharply. He paced like a Prime with his Guard. Those red optics of his roamed over the crowds, judgmental and scrutinizing.

"Oh, I was curious over the next phase of action after the cities decision," Starscream replied. His gaze tended to linger on Megatron, the mech who held a deeper frown than most. "I must say that I had hopes it would be more organized than this." With a shrug he turned, looked mostly toward those standing with higher authority. "What's this I hear about Iacon? You want to march there? Not the best plan. They may have held their opinion in the vote, but many of those who didn't happen to live there. Listen to your mecha, Megatron, and bide your time. Iacon isn't going anywhere."

Though Megatron allowed the seeker to speak, he would not allow him to continue offhanded insults. Moving, Megatron approached the Senator and stood before him, a tower against a pompous pillar. "Last I checked, I am the one heading this movement, not you. And if Iacon remained neutral then they weren't against us. We move to Iacon."

"Impatience will be your downfall." Starscream crossed his arms. "You say to go to Iacon to march, but is it really about that? Don't label us incompetent. If you aren't going to march then why should they? You move to Iacon because of the one inside its bounds. You poor deluged mech, do you think he's waiting for you? Waiting for you and your brutes to clomp in and carry him off? Given that I would gladly let you discover Iacon's standing with you and your revolution on your own, I have enough sympathy to warn you over the mistake you're about to make."

"The only mistake present is stalling," Megatron bit back, leaning forward, his field flared and intimidating. Starscream earned respect for persisting so closely.

"You're so eager to run to a 'bot who's carrying another mech's sparkling." Starscream's face remained resolute, even as Megatron's optics flickered and jaw hinges loosened.

"What did you say?"

Starscream took the opportunity to push his field back whilst the giant faltered. His optics continued to scan for every weak point and exploit it in front of everyone gathered. "Did you know your endurae took employment under the 'bot responsible for blaming him?" Those optics zoned, and Starscream's lip plates curled. "Recollection? Oh, someone told you, hm? Though, I take it I'm the first to relay the newest piece."

"What's . . . what's he talking about, Megatron?" Damus pressed forward, trying to hear more, to understand just what was being told. Even with his single optic, swirls of upset was rising in the paneling, and that of worry.

"What's this?" Starscream was looking at the confused faces around them. "You haven't even told them?" His smile was at its sharpest point when he turned to look back at Megatron. "And here I thought you didn't hold anything back from them."

"Did the senator just say Ratchet is carrying?" Overlord leaned closer, optics glaring. "Megatron, clarify this."

"When I'm clarified first!" There was something close to a growl in Megatron's vocals as he reached forward and grabbed the seeker by his collar structure. Alarm flared within Starscream's field, alert enough to make his henchmen react by closing the distance, but just as they had so too did the 'bots surrounding them, and their presence was what halted their advance on Megatron even as he dangled their boss. "I know of what Ratchet's done, and I've come to understand why, but now you're telling me that he . . . that he's . . ."

"Carrying Senator Proteus' offspring." Starscream sneered at his treatment and so leaned forward as if to antagonize, pushing cleansing fluid into an open wound. "I heard it straight from the source. A shame, and here I thought we were friends. Though, I can't say the same about you and your conjunx now."

That last comment was unnecessary and is what earned the jet a fist to his face plates. The force pushed Starscream out of Megatron's grasp and as soon as he crumbled to the ground his guardsmecha were to his side, defenses flared.

"No . . ." It was Frenzy. "No, he's one of them. They're all liars. All of them. Ratchet wouldn't do that." He looked toward his brother next to him. "Would he?"

Rumble was shaking his helm, fists clenched. "Not Ratchet!"

Division began making its way across the encampment. Divided over Ratchet's perceived loyalty.

"Is it true, Megatron?" Barricade reached out his field even as Megatron's flared erratically. "Did Ratchet really . . .?"

After a moment, Megatron turned to his inquiring crowd. Optics were bright, full of worry and upset. All afraid of the truth, just as much as their leader was. "I was informed that Ratchet took up position under the employer who'd originally accused him of his crime. I was given the reason for it, but could not accept it. Just as I can't accept this revelation."

"Accept it or not, it's happening." Starscream was waving his agitated mecha down and standing, rubbing at his dented facial plating. Optics glaring. "Your own conjunx is carrying the bastard of another, and here you are trying to go to him when it's clear he's moved on. Don't you see how foolish you are?"

"Silence!" Sneering and violent optics were the main features present across Megatron's face, a frightening sight that his opponents didn't usually live long enough to see. His command echoed into the silence, everybot watching as Megatron heaved, as he tensed, as his field spread in violence.

Shockwave took a step forward. "Regardless of his reasons, it is clear he stands in no positon for us to offer assistance." Megatron glared, but Shockwave brushed the silent threats away. "His choice was made for his own path, and we should make one for our own path, one that does not end prematurely." He nodded toward Starscream. "Despite his crude wording, he is right. Iacon offers us no reason to move at the moment."

"What say you, Megatron?" Overlord's voice boomed over the crowds, turning optics back toward Megatron's frame.

Silence waited until Megatron shifted, until he shook his helm, until he turned and moved away. "Do what you will." And he left, he left back into the retreat of his tent, of his silence and abode, of his lonely space. It's there his furnish and belongings met his anger, nothing remained upright and piles of broken debris and scrap left in the wake. Datapads, once stacked and orderly, lay strewn along the floor and it's there Megatron looked into their cracked surfaces.

Picking up a datapad, Megatron moved his digits over the screen. It flickered on even amidst the damage. This one wasn't filled with city maps, but instead it was one that held many of his personal writings, the ones more personal than those of Towards Peace. His poems.

Many of these writings were recent, full of longing, of sparkache, of absolute loneliness, like he was feeling then. But even then, as he read them, none seemed to expel as low as he felt now.

"They've chosen Tyger Pax."

Megatron didn't turn to the 'bot standing at his canopy's entrance. The sultry voice could only ever belong to Shockwave, that and he was the only mech rounded enough to approach him.

"I thought it proper to inform you," Shockwave said with a nod. "Might you be in better spirits to offer advice for the upcoming exodus?"

Megatron vented, dropping the datapad down into the rest of the broken objects scattering his pedes. He stood there, watching the screen flicker until its light faded completely. "And what would you have me advise, Shockwave?" He felt the mech's field brush closer.

"Regardless of the ongoing argument I know where the power resides. I know that if you say it they would go to Iacon."

Megatron shook his helm. He turned and looked at the violet mech. "You said so yourself that it was a foolish idea. After every disclosed reason, I understand now."

"So then you have given up on Iacon."

Megatron glared. "I have not. That city has not seen the last of me, nor those in it. But . . . I will need more than I have now before I return there."

Shockwave nodded. "A reasonable precaution, though, I might add the notion to keep sensitive to take caution in these cities we will enter, certainly the ones originally against us."

"No." Megatron felt himself fall into place, felt those wary hindrances begin to fade. For the worse or better, Megatron was ready, so very ready to fight. "I will not bend over for them anymore, we will not prostrate ourselves before them any longer. I want those watching to see this, to see our resilience and our strength. I want to do away with the worry and the wariness because until we do those cowering in the sidelines will never come to us, become a part of us and stand with us. If we have to be examples, then so be it."

"A dangerous lay, if I must comment," Shockwave said. "And should you continue to follow through with that process might I suggest forms of protection."

"You refer to weapons?"

Shockwave nodded. "I can procure them if you see a reason for them."

Megatron processed this course of action. He processed it for cycles and in the following days. But, right before he and the thick of the crowds moved to head toward Tyger Pax he consented and Shockwave delivered.

. . .

Tyger Pax met them more enthusiastically than anyone had thought. And the city after that, Rodion, resulted in the same reception. It was Protihex that saw the revival of antagonizing tensions, and it was Protihex where another riot broke out, one where fist for fist and metal for metal was met.

The Elite Guard had been called in, but fights were so massive that the pressing forces couldn't completely break into the thick of it and arrest those responsible, and those arrested were only drawn on by the growing crowds. Rallies of injustice intensified and its appeal attracted those looking to strengthen themselves through the means of the mob.

These marches, these riots, they bled over into strikes, into rallies. Even into occupations. The sudden shift of the Movement's attitude took Cybertron by surprise. Retaliation was met, but enthusiasm was often time its reward.

There were too many 'bots decimated by tragedy and enterprise, too many willing to find a home within the movement and raise up arms to defend its stance, and their own. And there Megatron was, head of it all, doing nothing about the shifting attitude and demeanor. Though, then again, his own seemed to change as well, all in the reflection of his current writings.

'The Great Machine; what is it really? And where do we fit in it? Us; who are sparked into this world and framed until we're shackled in the halls of unending slavedom, all until they deem we don't belong, as if we're no longer good enough in the placement they set us in.

They take away our binds only to strip us of our arms, our legs, our helms, and our voices, so that we are left bereft of the ability to raise our arms in defense as they hit, to move our legs and run when they chase, to cry out in agony when their digits curl and crush our very sparks. It is when we are worse than the half-spared scrap in the trash heap that they return to our violated and decimated corpses to push their servos into fresh wounds and take, and take, and take. With the ruin of our lives still tingling on their glossas they turn to our friends, our family, those we hold dearest. The only thing we are left is our audios so that we must hear those whom we cherish most cry out and fall into the same torment.

No. I will tell you again: No! I am more than spare parts, more than a simple cog or a wasted frame, and should those against me, against you, against us dare raise a hand against then let them never do so again. There is strength in my arms, our arms, and should we raise them together we could hold the entire planet.'

These inspirational excerpts riled crowds, dangerous crowds, and nothing that came later quelled these raging fires. Eventually, it all became nothing more than a call to arms.

'Is this it? Is this the level, the status quo, the complacency we are meant to accept? To settle for the filth and degradation we walk in?

My brothers, my sisters, I tell you my voice falls away from the capitulation and compromise for I have onlined to the new age at our doorstep. It sits idle and patient, willing to remain if one were just to reach out and grasp for it. Though I may lose my servo and arm I will be that defection against the conditioned mass. I will set my entire being into that goal for I know that I don't reach just for myself, but for those like me, for those that stretch out their arms and dare to believe in the world, not as it is, but as it should be. I move when my fellows cannot, when my friends fail me, when those I love retract their affections.

There will come a day when just reaching for this beginning will require strength, and it is that strength that I now hone, together, in millions of frames all huddled alongside me. There, where I am, they are, and where you are, I will be. Come and join me and we will reach for this bright age together.'

The discontent and promise were the major factors in Megatron's anti-functionist movement, now more than ever. And as the voice, the processor, Megatron didn't at all detain what he should have, because of that the news stations cluttered with his image, with his person as he stood by whilst his 'brothers' and 'sisters' ran amuck and terrorized entire cities with occupations, marches, protests, and riots.

In these dragging deca-cycles the previous appeal of the movement had been redacted. Cities sought to bar their entrance in nearly every part of Cybertron's surface, but, by then, it was too late. The sheer amount of 'bots boiling over forced cities to accommodate them at the fright of pending riots. And soon enough Sentinel Prime and his personal Guard were called.

Presently, the Prime's goal was to obtain the leader, himself, and have him incarcerated, but Megatron wasn't so easily handed over. The movement showed its willingness to fight fire with fire, their carried weapons more than a factor Sentinel Prime took in. And so he bided his attempts and sought out legal resolutions before expending himself or his mecha physically.

This stalemate is what encouraged Orion Pax to leave Iacon.

Pacing around his apartment. Orion gathered up the resources he would need for the drive. All the while he tuned into the news as they explained situations regarding another riot at the south sector of Nyon.

'Authorities have managed to quell the thick of it and arrests have been made. In the atmosphere there is anarchy, as well as resistance and retaliation to that anarchy. Nyon stands with its leaders who wish to bar this destructive movement from its borders and has openly called upon Sentinel Prime and the Elite Guard, though their assistance is hard-pressed. Reports have been coming of brandished weapons, of civilians 'bots harboring illegal arms in the blanket of this anti-functionist movement. There have yet to be any known collateral from these facts, but one must wonder when a matter of time becomes now.'

Orion was shaking his helm, wrought with frustration, more so as he dialed in the usual frequency he used to contact Megatron personally. Lately, he hasn't been accepting his calls. There was too many possibilities for the real reason, of which Orion tended to discover in the metal.

He heard that Megatron was presently in Kaon. This stirred its neighbors, and even Orion's department was thrown in the chaos of preparations and drills in case circumstances turned for the worse. Having to participate in them made Orion's tank churn and when he requested some leave, no one questioned his reasoning.

He was bound for Kaon and would not rest until he entered that city and spoke to a figure gaining all the wrong power.

Knock, knock.

The rap against his door was quiet and Orion almost dismissed it for background noise, but the sudden sensation of a familiar field extended and turned him to come closer. When he opened the entrance he looked into the worried optics of a friend he hadn't seen in some time.

"Ratchet!" Orion automatically felt his frame lean forward with his arms wrapping around the medibot. In return, Ratchet clung to him as well.

Guiding him inside he sat them down, Orion's smile large even against Ratchet's frowning features. "Ratchet, it's so good to see you. I didn't think you'd visit. How are things? How are you?"

"I'm all I can be at this moment," he replied, those optics of his looking over to the organized canisters of fuel Orion was preparing for the journey. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"

Orion's smile fell. "It's necessary." He paused for a moment, observing his friend. He looked troubled past his own circumstances. His field was heavy with anxiety and worry, a majority Orion assumed wasn't necessarily for himself. He understood why Ratchet came. "Have you been keeping up with it all?"

"Of course I have." Ratchet's tone was quick and sharp, hiding the deeper grief of it all.

"How are you handling it all?" Orion watched Ratchet look at him, he watched him look into him, and just as he had, Orion looked into him.

"How else can I be handling this? I was there, Orion, I was there when it all began. I watched it grow, and in a sense I helped nurture it. I stood beside him as they gathered around him, under him, behind his lead, his voice, the voice that held so much power, the voice that would listen. He's not listening anymore, and I know . . . I know it's all my fault."

Orion could feel it now, the hidden grief seeping out in the medic's field. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around his friend, but Ratchet sat straight, optics glaring, he was not there to be comforted, at least not by the likes of him.

"He's . . . hurting." Orion didn't want to pull all of the blame away from the actual cause, but he wanted to also understand how things came to this point. "I may not quite understand the full perception of a bond, but I know what it can do to a mech, and that's what's happening to Megatron. He's still a good spark, it's just harder now for him to keep himself focused when you are . . ."

"In the arms of another and carrying." Ratchet nodded, and Orion flinched. Not the way he would have worded it, but, yes. "Tell me, something, Orion, do you think that if I just left everything as it is now and go back—to him—that it'll change anything?" Ratchet shifted. There was regret, reminiscent regret in the lighting of his optics, likely of a time once cherished with his most cherished. "That it will all just go back, back to the way it was?"

Orion pondered the question and ran through the scenarios and the possibilities. Honestly, there were too many to consider, too many negative outcomes. "I'm not sure."

Ratchet nodded, optics falling down to the way his hands twined. Suddenly, the faintest of sounds broke their taut silence. It sounded almost like taps, like a screw drop, but in succession. It turned Orion's optics toward Ratchet's chassis the moment the medibot shifted and laid his hand over the plating.

Orion couldn't stop the surge of excitement roll out into his field at the notion of the growing sparkling and by the way Ratchet glanced at him, he caught his misplaced enthusiasm.

"You know I've been thinking about the life inside me, almost constantly now that they've figured out they can make noise, but . . . I wonder now, with how everything's escalating, if they're going to grow up in a divided world; full of riots and marches and occupations and strikes and just wa . . ." Ratchet stopped himself, shaking his helm even as his digits glided between plating as if to locate where the sparkling had positioned itself. It was a moment later, after he reeled himself back in, that he looked at Orion. "I shouldn't be here, I know, but I had to come and see you because I know you, Orion, and I know you'll go. He may not listen, but, if you could, could you give him a message for me?"

Orion was stunned, first Ratchet makes an appearance on his very doorstep after being absent for so long and now he was expressing his desire to attempt to communicate with his conjunx. Nodding, Orion moved, positioning himself before Ratchet as he looked at him, ready to capture it all.

Ratchet looked at him. "Are you ready?"

Orion nodded once more. "Go ahead."

After the words were said, a reluctant farewell parted them and Orion watched in regret as Ratchet transformed and drove off. Knowing where his friend went towards had the policebot's core cooling, and in similar fashion, his own journey would lead him into dangerous territory.

The road to Kaon was divided into stations where vetting prevailed under the scrutinizing optics of the Elite Guard. Given that Kaon was falling under the influence of the anti-functionists, the least Prime and his Guard could do was ensure that those going into the city and out of the city held no intention of spreading the unpopular propaganda. Orion, himself, was almost turned away more than once, but he managed to enter the city.

Further challenge came in the form of finding where Megatron and his closest circle resided. It had been some time since Orion was been able to make stable communicational contact with the ex-gladiator. Assuming it all because Megatron decided to ignore those extended calls.

Luckily, Orion found a familiar face in the minibot Rumble. The two had never gotten past acquaintances, but at least the minicon remembered him as Ratchet's friend and so led him to the sector and the base where Megatron resided.

"Megatron." Orion was grateful they were given privacy, but with Megatron's domineering field and that heated glow in his optics, Orion knew better than to count the circumstance fortunate.

"It's been a while, Pax," Megatron said, inclining his helm politely while he took up a cube and offered the policebot the fuel.

Orion nodded and approached, taking what was offered. "Too long. I've tried to initiate contact. Perhaps our frequencies were off?"

Megatron didn't move into that conversation so easily. "These times have called for caution. A necessity." His own optics were down, gazing into sloshing energon.

"Caution, right." Orion nodded, optics scanning along the accommodations Megatron had claimed for his own. A nice estate with an easily enough defendable keep. The room even boasted wealth with large furnish and heavy stocks, likely the wealth of a 'bot too afraid to defend his quarters. However, the main optic sores happened to be the image of ragged frames lined against a wall, lain on a table as if a buffet of fuel. Already, Orion knew those arrays of weapons did not belong to the public domain under law. "Is that was those cannons are for?"

When Megatron looked at him Orion saw no gleam of comradery. It felt strange, as if they were meeting each other for the first time, except this time Megatron was on less good standing with Orion.

"Have you come to condemn me or to stand beside me?"

"At this point, I can't say I would stand anywhere near you." Orion hadn't so much as touched the offered cube and its substance in his hand, though, neither had Megatron. So he laid it on a counter, ready to spill whatever contents was necessary in this morphing confrontation. "I've been following your plight, Megatron, the whole planet has. Now, whether you're purposely ignoring my calls or not, my opinions haven't changed. Neither have the questions. Why? Why are you doing all of this? Is it really necessary?"

"For someone who won't come alongside me, I don't think it's possible to try and explain it all to you," Megatron countered, laying down his cube and keeping his field to himself. He didn't come off as a friend to Orion, though the policebot would continue to extend his own banner.

Sounding a sigh, Orion shifted, crossing his arms. "I'm not your enemy. Neither are those who disagree with you. What's happened? You used to welcome confrontation and opinion differences. Now? Now you shun them and inaccurately label them as enemies? What is this a war?"

"Of course it is. From the very beginning that's all it's ever been, and they were the ones who started it." There was a subtle growl in Megatron's tone, the frequency of which sent off warning signals in the policebot, pulling him into programed routines and procedures necessary for every 'bot on the Force when confronted with a hostile. It startled Orion, and for the first time in Megatron's presence, he worried for his own safety.

"'They'?" Orion questioned. "The critiques? The Guard, the High Council, or is it the Senate? Which are the enemies?" With Megatron's carried silence, Orion took the opportunity to continue. "It's only a war if you make it one. You've called for unrest, and there is, you've called for strikes, there are, you've called for fear, there is. Megatron, if you so called for peace, there would be peace. Don't you see the power you have?"

"I see it and I understand it," Megatron replied. "And it took until now to finally understand the potential. I am their head, their leader, their lord. Cities have bowed before me and my masses. I've been rewarded with tribute, with towers, with weapons." He motioned to the room and everything it held. "The power I currently have can rival even the Senate's and yet they hide away in their estates and their Grand Imperium and submitting cities, too afraid to come to me, to see me as their equal. If that is how it should be then I just have to make them see me."

"By going down a path that will place you on the wrong side of history?"

"It'll only be wrong if it falls apart, and I intend to make sure it doesn't."

Orion shook his helm, optics blaring. "That's a hefty wager."

Megatron met Orion's stare, harsh red against pressing blue. "You keep trying to shake me, Orion, but I fear nothing. There is nothing for me to lose."

"How about your life?" Orion took a step closer, his field reaching out in companionship, all call to come alongside and understand, but with each electric surge, Megatron retracted his own EM field in refusal, rejection. "Megatron, if you offline then this whole movement will be for nothing. It goes with you."

"Your vocal frequency carries concern, my friend, but yet you stand so far away from me." The look in Megatron's optical paneling was growing more threatening by the klik. Orion had never been looked at like the enemy before, and it troubled him to his very core.

"Someone has to," Orion reasoned.

Megatron scoffed, turning his optics away. "I can see why you and he were friends, too much alike."

Ratchet. That was right. If there was one mech on the planet to make Megatron see to reason then it was him.

"You know your death wouldn't just effect the movement, but those who've put their livelihoods into it, those who gave up everything to come and chase this dream you've been leading. They trust you, have so much faith in you, and from where I stand you're charging into a suicide. If you won't regard yourself then regard them, regard your followers, your friends, those closest to you. I know that if any tragedy befalls you it would affect Ratchet the most." At the mention of the medibot's designation, Orion felt Megatron close himself. It was strange. There wasn't even a shift toward him. "Megatron?"

Finally, red optics returned. The look in them fiery, accusing.

"You come here to meet me posed as a friend but spew nothing but degradation and accusation. And now you dare try to sway me with relations you know nothing about." Megatron's tone was peaking, his field shoving back against Orion's.

Orion stood confused. "I didn't come here to fight, Megatron. Why are you so hostile?"

"I wouldn't have to be if you weren't so dishonest with me."

Again, Orion shook his helm in confusion. "Dishonest? I have been nothing but truthful and supportive to you, even if you can't see it that way."

"Then why haven't you told me about Ratchet's carry?" Orion paused, optics bright. When Megatron looked at him he scraped off every evidence visible on his features. "Am I too late to offer my round of congratulations?" The sneer in Megatron's voice, the snarl on his face. Orion hadn't seen the mech this murderous since that night in the park.

"Who told you that?"

Red optics zoned, glaring. "I think the more pressing question is why you didn't."

Optics flickered as Orion leaned away, helm down, shaking. "It was because I knew you'd react like this. I didn't . . ." He looked back at Megatron, the mech looking at him with too much expectation. "I didn't want . . ."

"I think I had a right to know that my own conjunx was sparked by another bastard." There was hurt in Megatron's vocals, it was seeping out even in his field. But he was right. Orion should have told him.

"I'm sorry."

"Of course you are." Megatron vented, gears whining, churning with pent up stress that Orion couldn't possibly understand. "But it's a little too late for that, isn't it?" With a nod toward the door, Megatron shifted away. "You've overstayed your welcome. You should leave."

Orion braced himself, fists clenched with frustration and agony. He straightened himself, stood against Megatron one last time hoping to be heard. "If you want to toss me out, fine, but I have something for you. It's from Ratchet."

There was expectation for the immediate reaction, an expectation of repulsion and expulsion. With Megatron so unstable, Orion figured that even the mere mention of his beloved would tip him over the edge. But that wasn't the case.

In an instant, Orion witnessed a glow, a sparkle of something tender flash across those heated optics. There was stability, minor, but it clung together under the chipping emotions still present in a spark chamber cracked and tarnished. Despite Megatron's disposition, despite his words and his anger, there was still a need, a need to know about his sparkmate.

Shifting, Orion clicked on the display in his optical paneling and played the recording.

' _Are you ready?_ ' Ratchet's holoform vaporized into existence. He was sitting down on Orion's couch, looking at the mech currently capturing the message.

' _Go ahead_." It was Orion's voice, but as soon as he approved, Ratchet's optics flickered. No longer was he looking at his friend, now he was looking straight at the one the message was intended for, straight at Megatron.

' _It doesn't feel right, I know. The hurt, the confusion, the anger; it shouldn't be there, but it is. Onlining to it every day is just so unnatural and unnerving that it’s sickening, almost more than the loneliness. And sometimes we have to live with it, because, in part, it’s our fault. But, in living with it we have to do our best to rise above it_.' Ratchet unraveled, even in this message he bore himself to the one staring at him, and it was a beautiful mess. ' _I don't want to lose you._ ' Vocals hitched, hints of static waved through the feed, but neither believed it was the fault of the recording. ' _And I know that if you fall into this path, this abyss, you won't come back out of it_.' Ratchet shook his helm and shifted his posture. He wasn't looking at them anymore. ' _You're stronger than that. I know you are. I witnessed it. I saw the way that mech fought to be heard, to say things because his spark told him to, because his friends were too afraid to. I saw the way that mech upheld his closest companions, how he protected them, how he led them through harsh terrain only because he knew there was a better pasture beyond. I felt that mech’s hand in mine and when it was, I wasn’t afraid of anything._ ’ His optics looked back and even though he had physically looked at Orion, even then, Orion could see him looking right at Megatron. ‘ _It’s frightening, I know, but you have to hold on. Just because you let go of me doesn’t give you a reason to let go of the others. They’re still with you and will be with you until it’s all over. Don’t let that end crash into them_.’

Orion could see Megatron. He was frozen, stuck in between tragic bitterness and agonizing anger. Still, those optics never left the recording.

‘ _When we were in the sublevels, we both got the chance to see so many of our dreams come to life, even after sacrificing a few. But out of all of them, especially my own, I always thought your dreams of the future were the finest_.’ Ratchet was smiling. It was soft and tender and open. Loving still. ‘ _Don’t stop, Megatron. Keeping dreaming, for the both of us. And regardless of where we are, even if we’re on opposite ends of the planet, know that I love you, I always will._ ’

Ratchet shifted again, lip plates quivering as a hand rose, digits sliding between chassis plating, a motion of a carrier. When he looked back he wasn't looking at Megatron anymore. ‘ _That's it_.'

' _Are you alright, Ratchet?_ ' Orion sounded again and the image moved closer just as Orion had during recording. Ratchet was shaking his helm but the servo that covered his mouth had to hide the sobs hiccupping out. The recording ended there.

Looking toward Megatron, Orion watched as he unfroze, as his frame slumped, as his optics flickered. He didn't look at him, simply stood there with more than enough expression on his face plates for Orion Pax to understand.

"Megatron—"

"Leave."

Orion wanted to condole the mech. The amount of sadness encasing him was more than detrimental, but Orion understood that he wasn't the mech for such a job.

"Leave now." Megatron's vocals were a mess and his refusal to look at Orion only spurred the policebot to heed his wish.

Orion regretted leaving Megatron, as well as Kaon but he understood there was nothing more he could do. His influence was stretched as thinly as possible. What came next would be the result of Ratchet’s final message and Megatron’s reaction to it.

He hoped to leave him and the others in peace, but as Orion departed the encampment, he doubted peace was within anyone's field.

. . .

Ratchet’s face scrunched at the taste of it. The formula was a common prescription provided for ‘bots during carrying stages. He knew what was in it and had more than a few times mixed it for patients, but now that he was on the receiving end, he can admit he understood why so many patient carriers had been reluctant to meet the intake quota. It was disgusting.

“You’ve got to consume it all, Ratchet.”

Glaring over the rim of the cube, Ratchet looked at one of the many medibots Proteus had in his employment, this one presently tasked with assisting him and providing prenatal care. All to his annoyance.

“If there’s anyone in the position to understand the necessity of energy intake, it’s me.” Ratchet ignored the way the mech glared. He ignored most of the staff there, even if they were forced to bend over for him, especially after discovering his carry. He wasn’t there to make friends, the ones he had sated him just fine.

Once the cube was finished he shook his helm and tolerated the way it dissolved into his systems. Honestly, the upkeep was one of the easiest parts about the carry. Routine scans, selective supplement intake, and growth monitors all fell into simplistic schedules. It was the pampering, the shift in duties from providing medical attention to receiving medical attention, and lastly the fact that he was actually carrying that happened to be the hardest to process in Ratchet’s opinion.

Digits roamed down plating, dipping occasionally between seams. The little one was quiet that day. Ratchet kept his field to himself, his optics regularly on check for the staff around him. He didn’t want them to know his truest thoughts, his constant regrets that ate him from the inside out.

Ratchet hated the fact that he despised the life inside him. Despised it for its origin, and for where it would end up. He’s been to Proteus’ concubinage, he’s seen his mates, and he’s seen his offspring. Ratchet didn’t want that for himself, or the one he carried. But, presently, he was powerless to stop any of that.

“No, Proteus, I don’t think you understand the severity of everything!”

Ratchet heard the vocals of Senator Decimus carry over from the lounge area down the hall. From the rotating gabble of the household, Ratchet’s heard the senator’s been becoming a regular visitor, especially since many of his businesses were falling victim to sabotage and strike. His visit that day would likely fall in the reason of the same as before.

“Calm down. Your hysteria will only stoke their fires. You want that? No? Then calm the frag down.”

Moving away from the medibot and staff, Ratchet turned down the hall. He stood in the entrance of the lounge area, observing the senators. Decimus was pacing while Proteus sat at a table, a couple of datapads lain out before him.

Decimus approached the table and slammed his hands down. “I’m losing assets and funds. You expect me to remain calm over that?”

Proteus turned his helm to him. There was a mean glare in those optics, a dominating feature he often used for those who crept too close to agitating him. “You’re not the only one. Unless you want to make a further fool of yourself then I suggest you sit down and listen to me.”

Decimus stood for a moment, fists clenching. In the following beat he relented and took a seat next to the mech. Their voices lowered. Ratchet felt he should leave without a concern to their schemes, but something in his tank urged him forward, a worry still present for those their schemes might affect.

“You’re sure this will work?” Decimus was looking at Proteus, skeptical.

Proteus bore his usual smile whilst he leaned back, pride squaring his shoulder structure. “There is no guarantees, but, if it does I can assure it’ll solve all of our problems.”

Senator Decimus moved his optics on Ratchet as he approached. Reluctantly the medic reached out and laid an attentive hand on Proteus to alert his presence. Proteus’ immediate reaction was a short twist in his seat and a widening smile. His hand rose and took Ratchet’s.

“Ah, I didn’t notice you standing there.” He tugged and Ratchet followed even while his optics did their best to steal glances at the laid datapads along the table. “How is the progression?”

Looking away from the table, Ratchet forced out a short smile for the senator. “As progress is. Fuel levels are balanced, for now, and the growth ratio has picked up by four percent.”

Ratchet tried not to shudder when Proteus’ servo laid over his chassis, digits rubbing as if in an affectionate manner. “Is my son still keeping you up at nights?”

“All the time.” Ratchet didn’t hide his disdain. Carriers could be moody and even if he was more than that, he’d blame it on sporadic levels.

Proteus chuckled while his fingers slipped close to latches Ratchet was more than reluctant to let him mess with, however, before he got the chance to swat at those wandering digits, both he and the groping senator noticed the field of unease emitting from the guest in the room. They looked to Decimus who wore a wary look on his face, mostly toward Ratchet.

“Are you finding trouble with the plans, Decimus?” Proteus wasn’t even looking at his fellow senator. His attention remained on coddling, though the hitches in his vocals more than pressed his guest to return a reply.

"Oh, no. It’s not that. But . . .” Proteus finally turned, a look of expectance forcing Decimus to continue. “I heard about it, but, I didn’t quite understand why.” He nodded toward Ratchet. “Isn’t it strange?”

Proteus held his smile, never once loosening his grasp on the medibot pressed against him. “Reconciliation, my friend.” He looked toward Ratchet, optics roaming down his frame, far from tenderly. “And how beautiful it was when we came together for the first time.” Those wandering digits found thigh plating, brushing suggestively but leaving the moment Ratchet attempted to shift away. Proteus was looking back at Decimus again. “Primus has really blessed me, my friend. After losing Greenlight and the litter He’s brought Ratchet back to me and now we have him.” Hands were once again rubbing over chassis plating. “Do you want to see?”

“That’s not necessary.” Ratchet was trying to shift away, especially from Proteus’ rising enthusiasm and his guest’s curiosity.

“Come now, Ratchet, it’s not harmful,” Proteus protested, clinging tighter whilst Ratchet tried to tug away.

“No, but it’s . . .” Ratchet shook his helm, feeling his core heat. He didn’t want to do it. He disliked having to open for Proteus’ medical staff and he would hate to have to do it for another damned senator.

Proteus was chuckling, laughing it all away like it was silly, like Ratchet was silly. “Apologies, Decimus. Ratchet can be a little shy. It takes some work to get him to open, but . . .” Those hands went back down, one dipping more than suggestive between his thighs and openly brushing against interface paneling. “I can get him to open another way, if you want.”

When Decimus’ optics flickered with interest, and his field rolled with waves of rising desire, Ratchet knew he had to give in before he began an unwanted exhibition.

“Fine.” Ratchet was allowed out of Proteus’ grasp just a distance. With his own hands he moved along his frontal plating. As soon as it all began to shift he tugged at the pieces defiant to move so that both senators could see his gestational chamber and the small form occupying it.

“There he is.” Proteus reached forward and gave a light tap against the flexible surface of the tank. He was enthused, excited, and his wide grin toward Decimus bore nothing but pride. “It’s a shame there’s only one, but, well, we’ll have time for larger litters after he arrives.”

There was no mistaking the disappointment retracting in Decimus’ field, nor the subtle disgust, but Ratchet refrained and did as was expected of him. When Proteus shifted back in his seat and faced his guest, Ratchet took the opportunity to close himself, his own servos remaining at latches subconsciously, hoping to not have to do that again.

“Congratulations.” Senator Decimus’ smile twitched, but his descending frown thickened when his optics fell back toward the datapads. “I hope your offspring doesn’t have to grow in this chaotic madness.”

“He won’t. If there’s one thing I am it’s adaptive.” Proteus assured as he onlined the pads and moved through rows of plans. He handed one to Decimus. “Process this over with your associations. I’m sending it to the Council and the other senators.”

Decimus looked over the data and then opticed Proteus. “What’s this about a ‘promise’?”

Proteus’ smile was back. “Mine,” he said. “My promise to you and the others that I will personally be at the forefront of this atrophy, and that I will find the best solution to dissolve it.”

Decimus sighed, shaking his helm. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem plausible presently.”

“Perhaps.” Proteus rolled his shoulders, his concern really nonexistent. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll fine line it with my best advisor and you give it a mega-cycle to click into place.”

Reluctance was evident and heavy, but Senator Decimus conceded and departed. After his exit, Proteus shifted in his chair and looked at Ratchet.

“Well, what does my best advisor say to it all?”

Ratchet stuttered. Shifting, he blared bright optics on the mech. “Best advisor? Proteus, you may be a good talker, but you can’t convince me that my opinion matters at all in your plots.”

“Oh, come now, Ratchet.” Proteus reached out and Ratchet wasn’t swift enough to lean out of his reach in time. He tugged him close. “You know you’re view means a lot to me. After all, if anyone in this ignorant city knows anything about that movement, it’s you.” He shifted, holding onto Ratchet with one arm only to pick up a datapad and show the medibot the plans scrawled into it.

Taking the chance to look into it, Ratchet looked over the rough draft of ideals and incentives for a ploy to combat the madness beginning to overrun the planet.

“I originally figured Sentinel and the Guard could handle these uprisings, but the slagger is more useless than previous assumed. So, naturally, it falls upon the Senate to pick up his slack.” Proteus was venting, shaking his helm. He looked annoyed, but no less worried.

There were suggestions of an identification system, a register. Further degrees of monitor fell into it all and Ratchet couldn’t stop himself from gagging at the so-called “promise.” Turning, he glared at Proteus. “You really think this will fix anything?”

“Pending ideas,” Proteus replied. He shifted again, leaning back his seat and crossing his arms, nodding for Ratchet to continue. “Please, give me your honest opinion.”

Scoffing, Ratchet shifted away. Senator Proteus of all ‘bots wanted his opinion, his _honest_ opinion? Like he’d really want that. Did it all even matter? Nothing Ratchet could say would sway the bastard.

But, if that’s what he wanted . . .

“It’s redundant and will be useless.” Ratchet slapped the datapad back onto the table. “You’re calling for their designations and models? Why? So you can ostracize them and hurt their friends and family? No right ‘bot will willingly go into that.”

“It’s for record,” Proteus said, his field always calmer than Ratchet’s escalating behavior. “They want to meet with the Council and the Senate. Everything that goes in and out of the Grand Imperium is logged. I’m giving them a chance at what they want.”

“Are you really?” Ratchet found himself hard-pressed to believe any of that cyberslag. “There will be arrests first before there will even be admittance.”

“Well, of course.” Proteus nodded. “We can’t have any potential danger come into the Imperium.”

“And if they’re _all_ deemed a potential danger?” Really Ratchet knew how things worked and would likely fall out. He wasn’t naïve and knew that Megatron and the others weren’t either.

“Well, then there’s nothing I can do about that.” Proteus shrugged, no sympathy, no empathy. No care. Of course.

“They won’t accept it,” Ratchet determined. “It’s slag and you’ll be the idiot fragger that’ll antagonize them more. But then again, I’m sure this is exactly what you want.”

Proteus sat in silence and contemplation. Ratchet couldn’t feel any aggression in his field or much of anything else. Even as the mech stood up and drew closer, Ratchet wasn’t sure what he would do now that he’d cursed his ambitions to the pits where they were conjured.

“So much frustration, so much anger.” Proteus’ hand slid down Ratchet’s face plate and the medic didn’t have the strength to resist flinching away. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think that is in any way healthy for a frame, especially one that’s carrying my offspring.” He pressed closer, and Ratchet only retreated, all only until his back plating met the corners of a couch’s armrest. “But I know what is.” He moved his hands over Ratchet, moving him further until he was seated with Proteus leaning over him, nudging himself between his thighs. “Your sparkling’s sire being close.”

When Proteus leaned in to rub his lip plates over Ratchet, the medibot was supposed to lean back and return the affectionate gesture. That time he didn’t, instead flinching away until one of Proteus’ hand had to steady his helm and keep him still while that dangerous mouth roamed over his facial plates. Ratchet still never adapted to Proteus’ taste.

Lips moved down his neck cabling and collar structure. Those hands, while pleasant and experienced, were rough; pushing at plating and groping until the lightest of indents morphed the sections of frame. Proteus more than enjoyed leaving marks and other obvious confirmations Ratchet was being berthed by the mech. He assumed that might be one of the reasons he was still allowed to mosey around in public.

The heightening scraping sounds coming from the way Proteus bucked his pelvic structure constantly made Ratchet cringe, especially at the thought of having to scrape the bastard’s paint off his thighs, a time consuming task but one he always performed after a coupling. Though the majority of his frame shudders came when hands moved toward more sensual paneling, playing with him as if he would react, as if he loved the way they touched him.

Turning his helm, Ratchet intended to stare at the wall. The lips descending and fingers slipping between seams were physically pleasant, but the ache of his processor churned his tank and in part always made the experience unpleasant. Even as his vocals hitched when Proteus ran his glossa along interface paneling, Ratchet only fought to stay.

In submission he slid back his valve panel and took Proteus’ further ministrations. However, despite that twisting and jutting glossa prodding against the walls of his valve, Ratchet still had to manually start his lubrication cycle. Enduring Proteus’ oral presence followed, the senator at least considerate enough to wait until a substantial amount of lubrication built.

That glossa remained to taste the flowing juices, and rub at nodes until the right sequence was struck and a gentle overload rattled through Ratchet’s core and encouraged a heavier supply of lubricative flow. When he pulled away, Proteus’ lips were dripping, that smile of his ever present even as he tried to push his mouth back onto Ratchet’s. The mess between them was unwelcome, but it enticed the Senator to slide back his own paneling. The soft click and feel of a rubbing spike brought hope in Ratchet that this session would be over with soon.

“I want to feel your mouth on me.” Proteus leaned back, situating himself until he was propped, seated comfortably, his spike warm and ready. With a pat against his thigh he nodded expectantly.

Ratchet glared. He kept his harsher lighting to himself, but it persisted as he heaved himself up and then got down onto his knees. After he learned of his carry, the Senator seemed to grow more demanding, Ratchet only assumed it was the thrill of a claim. It was still an annoyance, one that grew the heavier Ratchet did.

Not bothering to tease, Ratchet simply popped the spike into his mouth and bobbed. Proteus was fairly sized, but then again, it wasn’t as if Ratchet was unaccustomed to the well-endowed, though he’d rather not think of that while trying to bring this senator into an overload.

The spike thrummed, heating the more Ratchet stimulated it. The grasping hand against his helm was common, as were those caressing digits running along his cheek however annoying that they were. It came to a point where that pushing hand on his helm prevented him from further retreat, and with the limited movement, Ratchet resorted to suckling as the spike wedged itself into in intake passage.

In that too long process, Ratchet felt Proteus shift and in the next moment his digits were slipping into the medic’s valve, wiggling, rubbing, scissoring. From the wet sounds of that to the gurgle of his own vocals around the senator’s spike, Ratchet could be certain that brought the larger into overload. Transfluid shot down his throatal passage, the rest spilling out past his denta and dripping down his chin. Only then Proteus allowed him to pull back.

With those fingers out and away, Ratchet was able to sit back, looking up at the seated Senator. He looked sedated, pleased. Those blue optics of his held Ratchet. For a moment, Ratchet hoped he’d pleased him enough and would be sent home for the day. That was usually never the case unfortunately.

Reaching forward, Proteus laid his palm against Ratchet’s face, his thumb rubbing at the mess around his lips and down his chin until probing its way past mouth plates.

“So much trouble you caused me.” Proteus thrusted his thumb, rubbing it against Ratchet’s glossa as if to get Ratchet to further ingest his transfluid. Like he hadn’t had enough. “So much trouble. But you’re here now. Look at you. You’re right where I want you, where I’ve always wanted you.”

From sitting so close, Ratchet could feel the heat radiating off the senator’s displayed spike. His arousal intensified in his field, pushing against Ratchet and invading his senses. When Proteus stood, he took Ratchet with him, twisting them until he laid the medic down back into the couch. He crawled over him after that.

“Right here,” he said, his voice soft as if it was supposed to be comforting. “You’ll stay right here.” He leaned in, his mouth closing over Ratchet’s as his hands moved the white mech’s legs to wind around his pelvic structure.

Ratchet swallowed when Proteus’ spike entered him. He wanted to cry each time their frames connected because it felt wrong, so very wrong each and every Primus damned time. There was loathing so deep inside the medic that it became a common resident in the confines of his spark chamber, alongside it was the betrayal he couldn’t shake even if Ratchet continued to assure himself it was for the greater good, but his spark was mated and it knew— _he_ knew this was not his rightful mate.

And then came the sparkling’s involvement. It seemed like every time, at least until Ratchet could actually start feeling it, the protoform began moving during interface sessions. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t particularly hurt or was necessarily unbearable, but it was uncomfortable in the fact that Proteus would be shoving his spike into him making sure Ratchet felt him only for the sparkling to make a commotion and reassure the medibot that, yes, Proteus claimed ownership not only of his valve but his damn gestational chamber. And it all made Ratchet sick to his core.

Ratchet just hoped that Proteus would find some restraint in the latter heavier part of the carry, Primus knew how he’d be able to handle a fully grown sparkling twisting inside him while Proteus’ sizable spike kept him stretched.

“On the move again, isn’t he?” Proteus was grinning, one hand dipping between seams as if trying to feel the internal movement. “Good, he knows I’m close.”

And thank Primus that Proteus was. With a few more thrusts, the senator was spilling into him, arching in satisfaction while Ratchet remained on the edge of his own overload. He met it with less enthusiasm a few kliks later, but he had no time to revel in it while his face twisted at the discomfort of feeling _them_ inside him.

With a slick _shiiik_ , Proteus retracted his spike and leaned away. Ratchet made sure to follow suit and close his paneling. He stayed though, laying, glaring at the wall, even as Proteus also remained.

“Don’t make that face, Ratchet.” Poking digits rubbed his jaw strapping, and Ratchet wanted nothing more than to turn away further. “If you’re concerned for the child, know that I’m going to make sure he won’t rear in strife. Hey,” he forced Ratchet to look at him, “you have my word, and you know how I always keep my promises.”

Ratchet did, which was why he was so worried.

. . .

Orion Pax had been called in early, and it wasn't just him, but the entire department. Mecha were bustling, fitting armor and packing batons. Sprinkled in the midst of the chaos were posers for the Elite Guard, many too preoccupied with chiefs and captains to care much for the quizzical expressions of the masses.

"What's going on?" Orion managed to catch Whirl before he zoomed by.

"They're just two sects out. Captain's already shaking in his frame." Whirl let out a laugh, but it was one filled with the nervousness surrounding them.

"Who are?" Orion pressed.

Whirl cocked his helm. "You don't know? It's that Megatron and his army. They're marching toward Iacon."

Orion paused. Megatron, and his army, marching to Iacon? What?

"Pax! Get your aft into gear!" Came the Captain's shouts, to which Whirl pushed him along.

Pending questions were answered later as the station poured out every policebot available. They were positioned along the borders of the city, but a majority of them were set at the western section because that's where the mass of marchers were apparently headed toward.

"Primus, you don't think there'll be a fight, do you?" Whirl looked at Orion, worry molding around him. "I mean, what if—"

"No." Orion shook his helm, not believing it himself despite having a sensible intuition otherwise. "There will be no fight. That's why we're here."

And it was. The policebots were called in for backup since the Elite Guard were currently en route after massing the bulk of their forces in the southern hemisphere. However, if it came to physical altercation then this pending war would begin there, between the policebots and the anti-functionists.

"There they are!"

The call alerted every officer. Already Orion could feel the stress of his fellows, all ready to lash out at the oncoming wave, but their ground was held even as the mass stood along the border.

There was Megatron, standing at the head. Surrounding him were familiar and unfamiliar faces. Orion could see their defense, he could see the hostility in many optics, however, it was Megatron who moved first and he moved alone.

Walking up to the line he knelt down and laid a weapon down. As soon as he did others followed suit.

"We don't come to fight." Even without a weapon Megatron stood strong and powerful. His tone was different, lacking the usual malice he clung to. Orion felt his spark surge with hope.

Police captains and Guard stepped forward, clinging to their own weapons for superiority comfort and even as they sneered and returned harsh comments with Megatron and his mecha, the ex-gladiator did not fall victim to harsh retaliation.

"We're here for the Promise, the promise to talk," Megatron said, loud enough for even those not able to see the exchange.

Orion fell into his own processor, looking for any sensible reason for Megatron's actions. In part he was proud, proud in the fact that he was pushing away his usual forceful approach, but what it all left Orion with was worry, worry over the fact that he spoke of Proteus' Promise in particular. Orion knew of the act, but never believed in it, nor would have thought Megatron and his mecha would. Yet, there they were, submitting to the enforcers and giving their designations and serial numbers. A dangerous move for them, but a move they shook Iacon with.

There was unrest and mounting skepticism, but Megatron and his following were treated with more consideration than Orion had expected, and with the amount that came the process of background checks was near impossible to accomplish and so the force pressed on toward the Grand Imperium with a heavy escort. Orion was one of the first to volunteer in the escort and he walked just close enough to observe Megatron, unfortunately more skeptical than polite, but given their late relations he couldn't help his caution. However, when he reached his field out in companionship, he was delighted to find Megatron reaching back.

City crowds gathered alongside the march and mediabots filed out in hopes to record every klik. As soon as Megatron and the others arrived at the Grand Imperium's doorstep the standing Guard strode up to face them.

"No one's allowed in here until cleared," they said.

"If you must search us, go ahead," Megatron replied. "But we will go before the Senate."

The Guard snickered, power heady because of their heavier armament. "It's not just physical pats, pal. You're going to have to go down to the station for proper appeal."

"The only proper appeal I'll have is a follow through to that promise," Megatron answered. He didn't move. Of course he didn't. And his resolution threatened the Guard. Of course it did.

Orion watched them shift further into hostile degrees. One even rose a weapon just to show its frame force.

"You want us to make you move, terrorist?"

Megatron was quiet, but that didn’t mean his mecha were.

"Ruffian scrapheaps! You will step aside and grant us entrance. It is your leaders who called for this middle ground and we are here to fulfill it!" The large one at Megatron's left, his name was Lugnut if Orion recalled, he felt no threat in his field save aspirational devotion, but his tone and wording certainly began to rile the masses standing loyally behind Megatron. And Orion knew the moment they were worked up, the likelihood that the situation would fall out of hand would rise substantially.

"Are you threatening us?" More weapons were raised.

Now, the calls for entrance erupted and Orion could feel the pushes, the demand. Megatron remained quiet, but Orion was about to reach out and urge him to calm the crowds hadn't one 'bot shoved himself between the opposing sides.

"Look at them, you want a riot on your hands, Shaftgear?" Prowl prodded his comrade, shaking his helm. "I don't care what regulation says, I would rather face a write off than a mob at my neck cabling."

The other Guards seemed reluctant, but Orion could see the unease flash across their optics as the crowds shifted. They nodded to each other and waved themselves aside. As soon as Megatron passed they carted themselves alongside to escort deeper into the tower. Prowl managed to come up alongside Orion.

"Thanks, Prowl," he whispered.

"Don't thank me yet, we're heading into the thick of it now." Despite his actions, there was worry lacing Prowl's frequency. And he was right. Standing before the most powerful of Cybertron would test them all.

. . .

"Ratchet! Ratchet!" Pharma sped down the halls. The moment he skidded to a halt outside of Ratchet's office he began pounding against the door frame. "Ratchet, are you there? Ratchet!"

The door opened to a worn medibot, but curiosity flashed across his optics. "What is it, Pharma?"

Firstly, Pharma was more than thankful Ratchet was actually there—so often he was away—secondly, he was appreciative his friend had opened his office to him—more often than not Ratchet consented to keep it closed even to close friends—and thirdly, Pharma was enthused to see his friend lean in with an open audio receptor.

"At the Grand Imperium, they're there, the Senate, the promise, they marched into the city!"

Ratchet stilled, processor running at max capacity. With a shake of his helm he stepped closer. "You mind clearing that up?"

Pharma nodded and then took a short moment to compile himself. A klik later he was nodding his helm. "Megatron's come into the city with thousands of mecha. They marched right into the Grand Imperium to meet with the Senate in regards to Proteus' Promise."

Optics brightened and lip plates parted. There was shock first that washed over Ratchet's features before Pharma witnessed a final emotion set in: horror. Contagious as it was, Pharma motioned for Ratchet to follow him.

And just like that, both Pharma and Ratchet raced out of the facility and into the heart of Iacon.

. . .

"How dare you let 'bots in without vetting them?" Decimus sounded appalled while others spoke up in agreement. But, honestly, what were they so afraid of? Armless mecha crowding the podium platform when these elite in society sat so elevated that there was no possibility of a physical threat? Typical of them.

Orion glared though held his peace because Megatron was, despite the disposition.

"Apologies, but the concern of proper regulation wasn't presently pressing," Prowl spoke up, inclining himself to their whims. He motioned toward the mass to clarify.

It was clear the Senate was rattled. They kept glancing toward one another, speaking in secret. In the end it was Senator Proteus who leaned forward and waved a hand.

"I heard you laid down your weapons to come here. How very noble of you. Given your latest history, that doesn't seem very characteristic. Care to elaborate the sudden change of spark?"

Megatron took a step forward, leading his brethren. "I may not possess the gift of political gab, but I did not come here to dance around subjects. You and the others know very well why we are here. As per your promise we seek representation."

Senator Proteus nodded, an act as if he were listening. "You are aware of the other agreements entailed in the act. While I am more than ready to meet you there, until you can fulfill the rest of the pact I'm afraid our discussions will have to remain postponed."

"I don't see why we can't have those discussions right now. Especially when neither of us have any means to go anywhere for a long time." Megatron's smile was sharp, more so from the displeased look on the Senator's face.

The Senators were leaning into each other. From their distance it wasn't easy to understand their fields, but their shifts and expressions revealed unease. It was obvious that there was no other option present for them at the moment.

Required to keep the peace, they relented and allowed the anti-functionists to take the stage. Orion felt relief flood his senses. He knew that after everything was said that Megatron and those present would no doubt be incarcerated, but what an image this was, aspiring as it was inspiring. And for the first time in a while, Orion felt faith again for this daring movement.

And Megatron, what a mech. For his upbringing and position in society he met every question and retort from the Senators with excellent responses and vocabulary. He spoke like a true leader, and right then Orion and many others understood why so many gathered behind him.

"You've delved into many of our systems, Megatron, and addressed your ideas on solutions. However, am I to believe you assume these ideas of yours to be the only means with which to correct the crumbles?" Dai Atlas was leaning forward, visibly impressed by Megatron's knowledge.

Megatron inclined himself to the Senator, his respect earned. "Just as you have shown and followed through with willingness to talk, so would I. I may not meet the correct qualifications as many of you seated do, but I believe my involvement within these issues allows me measure with which to add opinion."

Dai Atlas nodded. "Well, should the requirements be met and positons cleared, I would be the first to welcome you as such a representative here."

Megatron placed his servo over his spark. "You show me honor. I regret how reserved I was to hold such from you. I had started this all on the pretense that you would not hearken to our voices, as had been observed for millenniums. This movement, though out of hand as it's become, only wanted to make enough noise so that you'd listen. And now that you have," Megatron bowed, submitting himself to the whims of the elite, "I can hope for a better future."

"COGS NO MORE!"

The sudden rouser had been ignored in the wake of the explosion that rocked the venue. Cries rung out, both from fright, from pain, and from alarms. The radius of the blast was large enough to maim near a hundred huddle 'bots. The structure of the Imperium’s pillars even shook with damage.

Orion had been close to the blast, but Megatron was closer. Shaking off the dust and debris and pieces of injured frames, Orion shook himself to his pedes and turned wide horrified optics to the opening scene around him.

There was chaos and panic. Energon was spilt, all too easily in a crowd too tight. Megatron himself was hurt. Orion could see ribal framing and the gears underneath were cracked and shattered.

He wanted to go to him, but his mecha were on the ex-gladiator in an instant, pulling him up as he hissed and groaned. When Megatron finally found his bearings and observed the scene before him, Orion watched as absolute horror washed over him. Those optics looked at his fallen brethren with distraught and then toward the alarms, the ones blaring that the Guard come.

Of course Megatron ran. Even Orion was reluctant to try and stop him. Instead, Orion looked toward the startled senators, those turning to flee to safety, with one taking a little longer to retreat. Senator Proteus showed his fascination with the unfolding scene, his optics in particular watching as Megatron and those still functioning escaped through the smoke.

. . .

Ratchet stuttered with one hard swerve before transforming and hunching over. Digits dug into his chassis plating as something akin to a solar fire spread throughout the vicinity. His immediate halt alerted Pharma and the moment the jet landed, the other medibot was transforming and seeing to his friend.

"Ratchet, what's wrong?" Waves of concern pushed against Ratchet's field, especially when he felt the mech scanning him over.

Taking a moment to assess the feeling and run a quick self-maintenance scan, Ratchet felt dread ignite alongside the pain. "Something's wrong." His scans came back normal, but Ratchet knew there was something else upsetting his systems. Something he was scared to look into.

Then both medibots saw the crowds. Many were veering, driving and flying back in their direction. Some 'bots even up and ran. For those who were backing up traffic, they were craning curious optics and fields.

Something was very wrong.

Looking up, there was a rising plume of smoke, the direction of which just so happened to be where Ratchet and Pharma were headed. That was when Ratchet accepted the worry seizing his spark.

"No."

The moment they reached the Grand Imperium the damage was visible at its most. Dust and crumbled structure paved the courtyard and many of said broken pieces were broken further under the pedes of frantic mecha in a rush to run away from the devastating scene, and away from the enforcers encroaching.

"Primus!" Pharma took the opportunity to run into the mess alongside Ratchet, becoming the first medical officers on scene. "Slag! What happened in here?!"

There were 'bots scattered about, hunched, leaning, lying. Ratchet wasn't even sure if they were all still online. And the policebots and Guard around were too preoccupied in their panic to gather themselves that they completely looked over the new arrivals.

Pharma had already ran over to the closest injured while Ratchet just stood, frozen, horrified, terrified for what his spark was telling him. So he moved, numbly at first until his systems urged him to search quicker, faster, just in case what he was feeling was right.

 _Megatron_. Ratchet's spark was telling him its mate was in pain. _Megatron_. Ratchet's spark was urging him to find him, to go to him. _Megatron_. It was the constricting sensation in Ratchet's chamber that nearly had the medic twisting himself out of the tower hadn't he ran across a familiar face.

The gasp that left Ratchet's mouth was meant to spout a name, the name of a dear friend he was sliding on his knees next to. Hands slid into grooves, laying on broken plating and delving into the spilled energon. Flickering red optics moved, looking at him. Despite the obvious pain drawn across his face he offered a smile for the medic.

"Hey, doc, long time no see." Barricade's frame shifted underneath Ratchet's hands and as a new wave of energon spilled from his systems, the medic got to work.

"Primus! Just hold on." Ratchet began tugging at split plating and ruptured lines. Barricade had usually been a vocal patient in the past, but he took this in silence which worried Ratchet all the more.

The dark mech had taken heavy damage, likely from percussion. It left him in one of the worst shape's Ratchet's ever seen him in with a broken chassis, deplated left arm, as well as a fractured pelvic structure that's joint rotators had been snapped in three places, resulting in a detached leg ligament.

Just as soon as Ratchet managed to clamp the ruptured energon line Barricade let out a poor laugh. "You were right, Ratchet, it's always the left one."

If it wasn't for the state of the mech, Ratchet had half a processor unit to smack him upside the helm or at least laugh alongside his shaded humor because he was right; it was the left leg. Any of those opportunities dissipated as soon as Ratchet felt a constricting hand wind around his arm and tug him back.

"You should be helping the others first. _They_ come last, especially after what they did." The Guard that had pulled Ratchet away from Barricade was sneering, glaring at the damaged frames of those who just so happened to align themselves differently. Ratchet was appalled by the comment, but was forced to see to damaged elite and policebots nonetheless.

By the time rescuebots and the backup Guard appeared there were already casualties. Fifty-three in total, the majority of them civilian 'bots who just so happened to believe in a cause not on par with modern society. Ratchet hated the way he felt responsible, he hated that he hadn't been allowed to attend them as they bled out and crashed into sizzling meltdowns. He hated that he knew many of those greying faces.

"Ratchet!"

The medibot turned at the sound of his hailed designation and despite the energon covering his frame, Orion Pax had rushed to him and embraced him. Only after that Ratchet realized he was trembling.

Pulling back, Orion's frantic optics looked closer. "What are you doing here?"

"Pharma told me that Megatron and . . ." Ratchet rubbed his energon soaked servos together. He shifted, optics still taking in what had actually been done. "He told that he was here, and . . ." Shaking his helm, his field folded in on itself. Orion immediately pushed his own out to comfort and warm with a short confirming glance toward the other side of the room where Pharma was helping ‘bots onto stretchers and carts.

"He was," Orion assured. "But there was a blast, a bomber. He came out of nowhere, right in the middle of the crowd."

There was pain in Ratchet's expressions and features. A lingering pain that tapped at his very spark chamber. One that told him everything.

"Megatron was hurt." Ratchet's optics brightened, a tightness seizing his core at the affirmation, and then a fear of the mech bleeding out like so many others had settled within him. "But I watched him run out of the building along with many survivors," Orion finishes, though the assurance didn't help calm the storm swirling inside the medic.

"What happened, Orion?" Despite his friend telling him the cause of destruction, Ratchet needed to understand why, and Orion understood this.

Stepping closer, Orion reached out with a friend's touch. "Megatron came with the others at the bounds. We met him there, us and the Guard. He and the rest surrendered their weapons and even submitted to searches and checks. But there were just so many of them that full and protocol procedures weren't possible to attain, so they marched to the Grand Imperium under the pretext to work under Senator Proteus' enacted Promise." Orion paused, shifting. He looked toward the Senate seats with longing and the deepest of regrets. "They let him speak, Ratchet. And for once I thought that it would all work out. But then . . . then this happened."

So that was it. That was everything.

"This wasn't right, Ratchet," Orion commented. "Nothing about this sits well."

Ratchet nodded. "I know."

"Prowl's looking into the identity of the bomber with his commander, but, Ratchet I can't help but feel this was going to be the end, no matter either side's compromise."

Ratchet shook his helm then. Finally understanding just what Orion was. "No, not the end. The beginning."

. . .

Damus had wanted to go on the march to Iacon, but Megatron had refused him and a select few others to remain and keep the encampment occupied in their likely extended absence. Among those held back he also tuned in to the stations reporting in on Megatron's movement and status.

He had been excited to hear they had made it to the golden city, ecstatic to discover they had gone into the Grand Imperium, and shocked to learn of the bombing.

Damus was one of many absolutely horrified when the 'bots able to make a break from Iacon limped back into the encampment.

"Wretches! Insignificant putrid low lives!" Lugnut sounded unhinged.

"It was a set up!" Blackout sounded just as furious.

Damus pushed himself into the tight ring of livid fields and frames. The scent of energon was heavy in the atmosphere and more than a few were actually unable to walk. When Damus pushed past the larger mecha he saw these 'bots surrounding Megatron's form. The entire left side of his torso structure had been ripped into, gears and tubing exposed while circuitry sizzled. He looked pained and ready to fall over.

Not on Damus' watch.

"Megatron!" Dashing over, Damus became a crutch, one that helped the mech kneel so that he could assess the damage. Damus wasn't any approved or official medibot but he knew how to stop leaks.

As he set to work so many questions clogged his processor, like: what had happened? How did a bomb get into the Imperium? Who was the bomber? Why was he among their mass? But with so many he couldn't discern which to voice first and so he remained quiet and confused as he did his best to seal the damages done.

"I could have told you the Promise would end in failure." Shockwave hadn't gone with Megatron, opting to stay back and observe, just as he was right then. "Too many faults in the statement."

"Hey! At least Megatron was the one willing to try," Rumble said in defense, just as shaken as the others.

"It was all a sham," Overlord spoke up, arms crossed, strained. "A ruse to no doubt get us to lower our defenses and walk into their laid cages. And _you_ fell for it." He was glaring, glaring at Megatron even as the ex-gladiator knelt in pain, in inner turmoil over the disaster he had led his fellows into. “Do you plan on leading us into more traps in the near future?”

“Back off!” Damus felt Overlord’s optics fall on him, undaunted by his EM spike or threatening tone. Even still, he couldn’t let others talk about Megatron like he was the ultimate fool. He wasn’t! They would never be able to understand the decisions he had to make, nor how many _right_ ones he’s already made.

“First we go into the Guard’s nest and then we surrender our weapons.” Overlord held up a digit for each perceived offense. “We subjugate ourselves to registers and checks, and the likelihood of incarceration, after that we head into the Unmaker’s lair and find ourselves surprised when we are unwelcome and attacked?” He shook his helm, stepping closer, pushing out his field to make Damus submit. “Mech and femme are offline, who knows how many more were taken to Metroplex. What other outcome would there have been?” He pointed, aimed his blame toward the only one blame could be laid upon. “It was that ‘bot who knew this and yet he STILL led us there.”

“And yet _you_ followed him.” Damus didn’t back away. Not even to a mech such as Overlord.

“A mistake I intend to correct.” Overlord looked to the observers around. “And perhaps you all should consider as well.”

That was when Damus felt Soundwave’s field brush his and then the larger mech stepped next to him, another force against Overlord and his opportunistic measures. As quiet as Soundwave was, he was also intimidating, at least enough for Overlord and the others in consideration of his terms to retract their intentions. Then sounds, recordings of Megatron’s past speeches filled the tense atmosphere. It was these playbacks that helped quell the mounting stress bubbling inside the crowds.

Optics turned away from Overlord, away from Soundwave, and toward Megatron. Concern over his wellbeing rose higher, and the respect he carried held fast even as he was taken into his tent to be seen by the likes of Shockwave and Damus in assistance. Rudimentary, and temporary as it was, Shockwave managed to weld and string salvageable components together for minor functionality, giving Megatron a mixed formula of his own make to settle his stuttering engines.

The promise of expert medical assistance in Tarn didn’t move Damus from Megatron’s side, even as his Shockwave conversed with him.

“Though foolish in your latter endeavors, I must admit I’ve never seen so resilient a mech as yourself.” Though lacking emotional prerogative, there was still something in the light of Shockwave’s optic. “And lucky.”

“Tell me, Shockwave, which am I more, the fool or the pariah?” Megatron looked distance as he sat, a hand still clutching his side, twitching from the constant pain.

Shockwave was silent for a moment to contemplate his answer. Damus felt offense rising. He knew what the ex-senator’s answer would be, and he couldn’t disagree more. What did Shockwave know anyway?

“At the moment? A martyr.”

Damus didn’t expect that, and from the look in Megatron’s optics, he was just as curious about it.

“It is regretful that your actions involved so many unfortunate setbacks, however, your resolution has taken in unexpected results.” Shockwave pulled out a datapad and showed Megatron the messages running through the network, messages from distraught mecha, distraught over what had taken place and what had happened to Megatron and those involved, and in their distraught there was offense—enough to pledge themselves to a side, to Megatron’s side. “Given that you are still functional, this movement of yours can move forward; past this phase, though I would be against attempting another plight like that should you desire to remain online longer.” He nodded toward the broken gears that were rendered useless in the blast, all piled onto a table. One was the unmistakable shape of Megatron’s T-cog. “It is a shame that you surrendered the bulk of our weapons. Procuring them was a task in and of itself, but . . .” He reached out and took up the cog, fiddling with it in suggestive thought. “I have a method of ensuring constant personal defense, if you are interested.”

There was interest in Megatron’s optics, but it faded back when the sound of thrusters cut across their audio receivers. Suddenly, an expected guest burst into the tent.

“Well, well, and here I thought I’d be looking at a sparkless frame; what with all of that mess you left back in the Imperium.” Starscream was smiling despite Megatron’s ailment and it infuriated Damus to the point his field spiked. Starscream paid him no mind, and neither did Shockwave, even to Starscream’s comment.

“Have you come to gloat?” Megatron didn’t even bother turning his attention to the seeker. His annoyance was felt even from where Damus stood.

“Only to offer congratulations.” Starscream clapped his hands together. “You’ve officially turned the planet on you.”

“As well as turned ‘bots to our cause!” Damus couldn’t take the degradation from the slagger and wondered why Megatron did. Was it for the support? Like they needed it from a sleazy senator, especially one such as the Vosian.

Starscream gave a quick glare toward Damus before rolling shoulder gears, kibble twitching. “So he’s more popular with the crowds, if Megatron can’t keep up with them then it’s all for nothing.” He turned back toward Megatron. “And you look in no shape to be heading that front.”

“The concern is appreciated.” Megatron’s frame groaned as he moved to stand. Damus was instantly beside him, offering his assistance even though the younger mech was waved away for Megatron to make his way up to the Senator on his own. “Your presence is not. I’ve led this movement for longer than you’ve schemed, and I will continue to steer its path.”

“Like into governmental snares? Ones that happen to _blow up_.” Starscream’s smile curled sharper while Megatron glared.

“I will accept the fault in what happened today,” Megatron said. “But let no ‘bot assume I make the same mistake twice.”

Starscream’s smile seemed to lean away from mirth toward enthusiasm. “Cybertron has seen your passion to strive for lofty goals as well as your willingness to submit for the better good, now, why don’t you let Cybertron see your strength?”

It was the last resort, one Damus and many of the others expressed acceptation over. It was only a matter of time before Megatron agreed.

. . .

Sure, there was the common datawork and case meetings after the explosion, likely entailing more than a few processoraches, but Proteus was used to the stress and time required to handle such tasks. This was all for the greater good. All to keep Cybertron complacent and still.

Motorwheel knew this and became willing to do his part in the grab for stabilization, though he was less enthused to carry the bombs and actually dared attempt to back down when those damned anti-functionists were marching into Iacon. So Proteus had to give him a very good incentive. In the end, everything worked out; a few of the rousers were offline, many more incarcerated, and Megatron and his lackeys ran with tucked fenders. The High Council and other senators were in agreement that they were a danger to society and should be dissolved or labeled terroristic.

What Proteus couldn’t quite wrap his processor around was the network reaction. While the present mediabots captured every little detail and the reporters offered politically correct responses, there were still sympathizers. Many of which saw the catastrophe as an attack on the movement instead of the government. Not quite the reaction Proteus was looking for from the populace.

Well, how annoying.

The idea of some engex sounded enticing, but before he could move from his desk to shuffle over toward the cabinets his office door slid open and there was Ratchet. Suddenly, the enticement of high circuit energon moved aside to the prospect of a stress relieving interface.

“Ratchet.” Proteus pulled out a smile when the medic moved into the room. He had just gotten up from his seat, maneuvered around his desk, ready to bring the mech into his arms when the hard press of a palm slapped across his face plates.

“You son of a glitch, it was you! You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Ratchet’s field was erratic, aggressive, bold enough to beat against Proteus’. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” Ratchet was swinging again. He may have been able to sneak in that first strike, but Proteus ensured he wouldn’t be caught off guard again. It wasn’t like him.

Catching wrist rotators, Proteus squeezed in warning. “You hit me again and you’ll find yourself regretting that decision.”

Ratchet shook himself away, but his glare persisted. “Why did you do it? Why? They were willing to talk, to go by the rules, _your_ rules.”

Proteus crossed his arms. “To say I wasn’t surprised they complied would be a lie, but I digress. The end results were the ones desired.” He shook his helm, laughter on his lips plates. “You didn’t think we’d ever allow them representation? They’re criminals. We can’t bend to them.”

“They’re only criminals because they disagreed with you.” Ratchet was shaking his helm. He looked distraught, disbelieving, though, really, he of all ‘bots should know better by now. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? There . . . there’s going to be a fight, a _war_.”

“You give them too much credit, as well as too much sympathy.” Proteus glared, displeasure drawn along his facial features. “The others and I are going to meet with the High Council. If they all agree, even sympathizers will be punished. I would hate that to happen to you. It’d be an embarrassment for my household. And to me.”

Something struck. Proteus could see it in the medic’s cerulean optics. He was quiet for a moment, but in that his field retracted. He was retreating.

“It would, wouldn’t it?” Ratchet’s features shifted as if trying to hold back agony and anger at the same time. “Well, I wouldn’t want to draw in anymore shade.” He turned then and moved out of the office.

Proteus took a step forward, wary. “I hope you’re returning to the medical facility and not to those damned terrorists.”

Ratchet stopped like he should, but when he turned to look at him there was a lack in his expression. A lack of respect, of concern. Of fear. “I’m going where I’m needed. You don’t control me, not anymore.”

What did he just say?

The medic turned and dared to leave, again. In a few strides, Proteus had caught up with him and reached out, grabbing a hold of him. He turned him, made Ratchet look at him and shook him for good measure. “Oh? But I do.” His fingers grabbed a tight hold of chassis plating and pulled the smaller mech close just enough to bring him to the tips of his pedes. “Have you forgotten my claim over your offspring?” Proteus was shaking his helm. “You can’t just walk out of here with my property.”

In his handle, Proteus saw the satisfying flashes of fear light those optics, but as quickly as it flickered into existence it extinguished and now those bright optics glared and met Proteus’ stare. Slightly stunned by Ratchet’s reaction was what gave the medibot the opportunity to run a substantial amount of bolts throughout his systems with his defibrillators. It froze Proteus’ functions enough to make him tumble.

Ratchet stood over him without an ounce of regret. That would change.

Without another word, the medibot turned and made his way out of the senator’s office.

“You cross me and you’ll end up like Greenlight!” Proteus was growling, trying to get his systems from vibrating so he could get to his damn pedes.

Ratchet paused at the doorway, but he didn’t turn back. “So be it.” And then he left. Just left.

How dare he. How damn well dare that bastard. As soon as Proteus was able to stabilize his jolted systems he moved back to his desk to call for his security but his optics caught sight of splayed datapads, ones with bytes of his plans for the anti-functionists.

Fine, if Ratchet had no more fear for his own wellbeing, then Proteus would just have to ensure that fear fell on others, others he could hurt.

The emergency meeting met with capitulation and union. There was obvious unsettlement from a select few but they kept their mouths shut as the majority ruled in the favor of the planet. And that was stability through whatever means.

“What if there is retaliation?” Of course Dai Atlas would be the one asking such things before they fell close to voting approval.

“That is why we have a Prime,” Decimus replied as if the answer obvious.

“He didn’t seem to handle them well when they possessed weapons,” Dai Atlas pointed out.

“Well, whatever weapons they had were given up,” Decimus replied. “Remember?”

Dai Atlas glared, arms crossed, ever the defiant one. “If they were able to acquire them in the first place, I assume it won’t be hard to do so again. And now that they are antagonized, I suspect they won’t be as restrictive as they were before.”

“You call occupations and riots restrictive?” Proteus was laughing, shaking his helm. He glared, slamming his fist down. “They are a menace to society and need to be snuffed out.”

“Through detainment or other means?” Dai Atlas glared back.

“Whatever means is necessary.” Proteus nodded toward the Council members, most of which leaned toward his resolutions. “That also means cutting their fuel lines. They’re after attention? We don’t give it to them. Sympathizers? Make it illegal.”

“You’re going to monitor every ‘bot on this planet to keep their opinions in check?” Senator Ratbat didn’t sound convinced. It was a lofty suggestion.

“If necessary,” Proteus reminded. “As long as the media does its job then we won’t have to deal too much with the misguided.”

“Have you been on the network?” Ratbat was leaning forward, tapping his digits against the railing. “There’s already a climbing number that are _siding_ with Megatron, saying that the boming was an attack on the movement, the _movement_. Do you plan on combating that as well?”

Proteus’ features scrunched. Annoyance flaring. “Then we’ll call for a martial law.”

“That’s a little extreme,” Senator Crosscut commented. “Especially after you said to keep attention away from the movement. That’ll only alert the population to the dangers we perceive. And if we do, then they will as well.”

“Regardless of the finer details, we are all in accordance that they must be outlawed?” Proteus watched his brethren nod and hail in their vote. All save for one. He vented. “And where is that damn Vosian senator?”

“Here.”

Senator Starscream didn’t at all look ashamed for his tardiness. The fact that they would have to relay everything discussed to him made Proteus enmities with the seeker. He’d have to have talks with him later.

“Sorry I’m late. I had some trouble on my way here, but the nicest of mecha came and helped me.” Starscream held his smile even as a ‘bot shifted out from behind the jet.

Senator Ratbat was the first to react. “Soundwave?” Bright optics looked toward Starscream with frustrated alarm. “Why is he—?!” The alarm shifted away from wary to horror as the darker mech unloaded a round from a hidden blaster right into the senator’s chassis. He fell back, gasping and crying out in pain. That was when another blow tore through his facial components and silenced him.

Immediately those closest moved away, alarm for their lives urged them to contact security, or at least attempt to.

“Don’t bother,” Starscream said, pulling a gun out from his own subspace. “They can’t hear a thing.” He aimed at the frightened faces. “Which one’s next, hm?”

“Starscream!” Senator Crosscut looked more than confused. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because someone has to.” Starscream didn’t seem at all interested in further explanation and laid fire to the defenseless along with the mech beside him.

Proteus had narrowly missed a shot that instead found itself embedded into Dai Atlas who crumbled down at his pedes. Even in the mayhem he was the only one collected enough to make toward the side exit, but the moment he released the locks the frame of another mech pressed into the room.

“No.” Proteus moved away. He turned, looking back to where Starscream and Soundwave were moving over fallen forms and then back toward the larger figure. “How? How did you get here? How did you—?!” A servo wrapped around his neck cabling, the grip tightening to the point gears snapped.

Megatron looked at him with the deepest of red. “The same way you did.” From there, Proteus could see the passage behind. Security guards lay strewn in the hallway, pummeled and non-functioning. “I got rid of everyone in my way.”

Static erupted in the midst of Proteus' shriek the moment Megatron tightened his grip. Another squeeze would have surely wrenched another cry from the Senator hadn't Megatron thrown him down instead. It was there Proteus stuttered, hands around his throat structure, feeling displaced gears grind in the most painful of ways. It was there he took in the sight of his fallen brethren, of those slain without warning. And he was to join them soon in filling the place with his empty husk.

When he looked up, he glared at the mech who's caused him and the planet nothing but grief. This menace who would rather wage a reckless coup instead of let peace persist.

"You think that once you get rid of me all your troubles will fade away?" Proteus' vocals cracked, but malice remained. Shaking his helm, he moved, backing himself away as Megatron encroached. "This changes nothing!" With his back hitting the wall Megatron's shadow enveloped him, then he leaned over him.

"You're not wrong." Megatron's optics lined down, looking at Proteus like he was an insectoid. "There are countless problems scourging this planet. It will take some time to see to them all." With Megatron so close Proteus noticed the subtle change in his plating, in his form. Bits of kibble overlaid his shoulders, his chassis, there was even a sizable cannon attached to the mech's right arm. And it was that weapon that nudged against Proteus' chassis, right over his spark chamber. "But I know one thing that'll immediately change after this: the planet will be rid of you."

The rising whine of ions charging pierced Proteus' resolve. His hands reached out, grabbing at Megatron. "Is this because of him? You're really going to offline me because of that glitch?"

Megatron's expression remained the same; stoic and unmoving. "That is only one of the many sins of yours which you must answer for."

"You know without me you would have never known that slagger!" Proteus' vocals crackled further, his spark pulsing, spinning with pending fright. This really was the end, wasn't it? How uncomely. "You would never have even come this far without my intervention."

Megatron still remained unswayed. This time, his cannon pressed against the Senator's helm. "Then I suppose a proper thanks is due."

The ion cannon left nothing behind but molten metal. Proteus' hulk twitched and shuddered until Megatron took his servos and dug through plating and tubing and circuitry until he grasped the spark chamber and seamlessly yanked it out of the mech's chassis. It was there, for a time, that Megatron stared at the light inside.

In the following moment he crushed the chamber and extinguished the light inside.

"As good as any day for a resignation anyway," came Starscream's offhanded comment. He looked all too pleased with the scene and continued moseying around, nudging every frame with his pede. "Well done, Megatron, this is the first step in achieving everything you've ever wanted. Sure there may be a little spilled energon here and there, but it won't take long before this planet crumbles into itself. Trust me, any new councilors or senators will lack just as much intelligence, and Prime? I wouldn't worry about him either."

"Let's leave." Megatron's voice was low in volume, but high in demand, even as he looked around the room, possible remorse shadowing his features. "This city holds nothing for me anymore."

Starscream nodded and Soundwave trailed. They made their escape before the authorities even discovered the massacre, before Iacon even had time to retaliate to the damages done.


	12. Things Lost and Things Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo!  
> This chapter turned out longer than expected. Sorry, not sorry.  
> Enjoy!

The news of the massacre shook Iacon, and as soon as the footage streamed and the killers listed and posted across every media outlet, the wavering support for the anti-functionist movement suddenly came to a standstill. Travesty and absolute horror over the retaliation swayed much of the populace toward the likes of Sentinel Prime as he declared the movement terroristic and vile, swearing war on them and their supporters. Unease and distrust gripped the planet in the following cycles. There wasn’t a single Cybertronian troubled in some way, shape, or form.

Except Ratchet.

Mountains of condolences and pity was heaped upon him and his state, but it never stopped the medibot from walking straighter, helm higher, and field stronger, especially when it was right into the holding center to visit old friends.

"You know you shouldn't be doing this, Ratchet. In fact, I wish you wouldn't." When Barricade glanced around with wary optics it wasn't to the other prisoners who were both familiar and unfamiliar, but particularly toward the guards, the ones glaring, sneering at the newest additions. He looked back toward Ratchet then, the medibot who took time out of his schedule every day to come and visit him and the others that were unfortunate enough to fall into the Elite Guard's servos. "I've heard what's going around. If you keep moseying here, they're gonna put you on a blacklist."

"Like I haven't been on one before," Ratchet retorted.

"Well, yeah, but you've got a lot riding for you this time, especially . . ." As soon as he glanced down, Barricade averted his optics, knowing it was rude to stare. But he suggested enough.

Ratchet vented, his arms shifting on the table, his optics fluctuating in thought. The sparkling was idle that day. "Until it comes I've got unofficial immunity, in respect to its deceased sire. I'll do what I want for now."

Barricade shifted uneasily. "I'm sorry; about all that happened."

"Don't be." Ratchet was shaking his helm. "The bastards had it coming after what they started. I didn't care about a damn spark in there."

"Not even Megatron's?"

Ratchet looked at Barricade, he was quiet for a moment. They both were.

"I'm glad he did what he did," Barricade began, light and gentle, knowing full well the controversy the subject carried with the medibot. "After everything those 'bots have done, especially to you, I'm glad Megatron finally had the bearings to do it."

"To become a murderer, a terrorist?" Ratchet's optics glared, the light in them harsh, even as Barricade sat before him in one of the harshest environments on Cybertron.

"What did you expect would happen? After you left, after that damn Promise, after the bombing?" Barricade leaned back, crossing his arms and shaking his helm. "They wanted this fight, and we're going to give them one slag of one. It's like you said: the bastards had it coming."

The unrest continued from there. Entire sectors were gripped with paranoia, mixed reactions estranged neighbors, friends, and even family. Isolation and prejudice rose to near extremes and evictions were not that all uncommon.

Villages, towns clung to scaled cities for support and protection while these flocked cities reached out to cling to those closest for ramp. This strained pacts and unions as well as trade, Cybertron was thrown into spiraling chaos before the uprising rivalries.

Iacon would have fallen into a similar state if not for the presence of Sentinel Prime and his Guard. His return to the northern hemisphere after the senate attack spurred the golden city's defenses and laid heavy monitors on its citizens and all coming to seek refuge. At the moment the Prime was working on stretching the Guard's influence into other afflicted and paranoid cities because right then, the southern hemisphere began twisting in on itself.

Kaon had completely shut off all communication with Iacon or even Sentinel's envoy, and Helex looked ready to fall into the same blackout. Tarn was a known city whose population majored alongside in support of Megatron and his standing, and with Senator Starscream being one of the culprits behind the senate massacre, the balance for Vos was more than questioned.

With the city disruptions, it was harder to keep track of Megatron and his movement, yet his publications remained consistent. Each script fell into wary hands and skeptical optics, especially as the nature of the writings became more conflict oriented with encouragement for resistance and calls for occupation, excusing as well physical force should the necessity arise. Necessity, ha!

Though there were many turning away and resisting this extreme means of protest there were still scores more falling victim to the excitement of the rising anarchy, and Law Enforcement was already stretched to its limits. Many officers were inevitably called in from surrounding vicinities to bunker in cities in need of the defense against the surging waves of radicalism. Orion Pax had been driving around nonstop with all of the duties he was plastered with, most of which involved vetting and assisting new refugees crowding into the city. It was there Ratchet and Pharma managed to see him, and from passing glances while they too assisted in medical scans and system checks. Jazz and Thunderclash fared no better, and Prowl hadn't been seen since the massacre.

"What a day." Pharma was moaning, hand trying to massage stiff vertebrae hydraulics as he and Ratchet made their way down the facility halls toward their respective offices. "They just keep coming. I'm about to fly out with a banner attached to my turbos saying, 'no vacancy, go home.' Haha."

"You let me know if you find any success with that approach." Ratchet shifted, more than willing to take a seat for a few moments in Pharma's office. His hands fell to knee rotators and rubbed. He'd been crouched all day while Pharma had been hunched. Ratchet could even feel the stress his lumbar shifters had taken from the prolonged position, just too many kinks to check off at once.

Then, just as the two's vents rumbled quieter the sound of a metallic "clink" rang into the room. Both pairs of optics fell toward Ratchet's chassis.

"It's been a while since I ran a scan." Pharma rolled his shoulder struts. "You want me to?"

Ratchet sat in silence for a moment, waiting for another sound, but there wasn't one. With another vent, he shifted, moving his chassis plating aside. "Might as well."

Pharma pressed closer, a beam of light running down system and wiring before he reached out and pulled at a few compartments. From there he viewed the gestational chamber.

"The protoform's mass increased by twenty-six percent." Pharma was smiling when he looked at Ratchet. "He might just be here sooner than we think." Leaning back, Pharma began logging the recorded information. It was after Ratchet shifted his chassis plating back into place that Pharma found the means to ask, "After everything that's happened . . . how are you, Ratchet?"

"As good as I can be."

Pharma nodded, his hand reaching out, laying over the abdomen. There was another bout of movement, as if the sparkling was starved of touch. Yeah? So was its carrier.

"And your carry? I know the effects that come into place when a sire is . . ."

"Dead?" Ratchet didn't look at all concerned for the subject. "I'm fine, the sparkling's fine. I take the needed supplements, I observe where they position, and I endure the nights they keep me online with their splayed field searching for the sire they just won't find." Ratchet shook his helm and slumped in his seat. Pharma at least kept his silence while his friend attempted to reel himself back. "Am I wrong to be so happy, Pharma? To celebrate inwardly, and outwardly, that the one mech who caused me so much grief, worry, and torment for so long is finally extinguished, even if he was the sire of my sparkling?" He looked at Pharma, a plea for understanding in his conflicted optics. Even then, Ratchet understood that Pharma likely couldn't come alongside him in this. No, this had been his burden since the moment he gave in and submitted to Senator Proteus and it will be his burden from there on out.

"What do you plan to do when it’s time for emergence?" Pharma clasped his hands, looking expectant for any reasonable answer. "You've had plenty time to think."

Ratchet has. The senate attack was now a distance in the past, leaving it a memory in processor back logs as well as in the form of the massacre's only survivor, Senator Dai Atlas. But that memory was a rally, one used to unite and stabilize against the crumbling mess making its way from Cybertron's core to its surface. And while the planet was gripped in such angers and paranoias Ratchet was contemplating his own further plans, and the likely options he had to choose from in his current condition. The most pressing one in concerns for the sparkling inside him.

"Adoption." Ratchet was nodding. After Proteus was snuffed from the picture his estate gambled between his eldest offspring of which once procured the concubinage and all its additions were evicted. No secured inheritance or financial help was given and Ratchet found himself further grieved at the strife those 'bots and their offspring would have to face now. Having managed to sidestep all of that drama, Ratchet made progress to fall back into his old life, the one where he was simply Junior Medical Officer Ratchet with an office at the Medical Association Facility and an apartment in Iacon’s 57th sector. That life didn’t have an additional figure before, and so it wouldn’t be right to have one now, and out of all the possible roads to drive down, they all really led toward one direction.

"Sounds like the best bet," Pharma commented.

"Does it?" Ratchet was snickering and shaking his helm again. "Because even now I'm fighting with myself over that decision."

"That's just your carrier coding kicking in," Pharma assured.

"It could be." Ratchet's fingers slithered down, pressing between seams as soon as he felt another shift. Lately, it didn't agitate him as much. "Or maybe my guilt's playing a part in it too." Pharma looked as if he wanted to interject, but Ratchet wouldn't allow him. "With him gone, I've had a lot of time to myself. A lot of time to process and diagnose. This child, they've done nothing but thrive, nothing but what they're supposed to, and here I stand still with a disdain against them, one that persists even though my coding is morphing into the proper numbers. It's that which I've come to regret the most. I used to think it was hate, because I could understand that, but lately I've realized that that hate really is on myself, myself for wishing so hard that I was carrying my mate's offspring and that he wasn't on the other side of Cybertron pushing us all into a division so strong that we'll all have no choice but to take a side.” Ratchet paused only a moment to vent, a sequence to maintain the static popping into his vocal frequencies. “It's really all my fault, and accepting that is just so damn hard. So, in that, I wonder if I can find happiness with myself . . ." His hand rubbed over his chassis, affectionately. A small smile stretched his lip plates despite the obvious turmoil. "And them."

Pharma shifted, his field brushing to pull his friend out of the exposed self-hate. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

Ratchet nodded, his optics dim while his processor clogged his CPU with thoughts of the little one he carried. "I know." Turning he looked at Pharma, a heavy light in his optics. "When it’s time, I'll need your help entering them into the system."

Pharma nodded. "Of course."

Despite the best laid plans, sometimes sporadic inspiration drives one off the set path, as it had Ratchet when he learned of the need for medibots in Polyhex. Like Iacon, the city was being bombarded with refugees and more than enough weren't in sustainable states, and with neighboring sectors pushing back in harassment, Sentinel Prime sent a message to Iacon's medical organization stressing this problem.

It was all voluntary, which would explain the low number of medics boarding the transport to the ailing city, but small or not, Ratchet was among those onboard. Unfortunately, he couldn't make it out of the city without notice, not when the pilot happened to be a dear friend.

"Ratchet?" Thunderclash had been in the process of moving into the cockpit when he noticed the familiarity from one of the passengers. He looked surprised, but that surprise quietly shifted into disapproval. "What are you doing here?"

Ratchet shifted, once to take a glance at the curious optics turning his way to silently tell them to butt out of his business and then a second time to cross his arms and lean back in his seat so as to come off as defiant. "Going to Polyhex, like the other medibots here." It was matter of factly and to the point and yet Thunderclash stood there like his processor was glitching out.

"Why?"

Ratchet shifted again, forward. Subconscious medical scans activated, droning down Thunderclash—just in case. "Because I volunteered."

Thunderclash shook his helm for a good klik before saying, "But aren't you due soon?"

"Three deca-cycles should be enough time to go to the city, help out the understaffed hospitals, and then come back to Iacon." He rolled his shoulder struts. "It's not as if I'll be gone for vorns."

Thunderclash's field continued to hold skepticism and as it amplified so too did the medibots around him. Ratchet sounded a sigh and rolled his optics. "Primus below, you want me to get off? Like you can't use the extra help." He motioned to the score of medics, the only ones capable, able, and decent enough to answer the city's plea. They really were a small band in comparison, but at least they were there. And, really, who was Thunderclash to deny one more medic to Polyhex?

Ratchet watched his friend cave and smiled to himself even as he wagged his finger at him. "Fine, but I'm calling in an assistant for you."

Ratchet grumbled at the idea, especially when said assistant happened to be an Elite Guard by the designation of Prowl, but at least Thunderclash backed down and didn't continue to fight Ratchet's decision. Now he was having to deal with the noble Praxian who questioned every little bit of his performing duties.

"Prowl, who was it that graduated—with honors—at Iacon's Academy of Science and Technology? Oh, that's right, it was me. Now will you let me do my job?" Ratchet was glaring at the mech who was refusing him from assisting a patient.

"Who's also carrying?" Prowl shot back, hooking his hands underneath the 'bot's arms and hoisting him onto the medical table. "You shouldn't be trying to exert yourself."

"Exert myself?" Ratchet sighed, shaking his helm and groaning. "Look, do you even know the internal properties of reproductive systems and or protoform durability? You don't, do you? Well I do and I want to tell you that strenuous weight will in no part even bother the little brat, not unless said weight happens to be over ten tons directly on top of the gestational chamber." He moved, pulling the disoriented patient slightly to situate him better on the examination table. He gave a rebellious glare toward the Praxian, just because he could, and with a smile, he continued to have his way in all of the mayhem and upheaval plaguing the stressed city.

Along with a shortage of medical personnel, there was also a need for policebots and the Elite Guard. With Polyhex so close to antagonizing shifting cities, one would think Sentinel Prime would issue at least a few legions into the sector, but no matter the amount of time that passed, nothing really changed, and slowly, even those who volunteered began scampering back off to where they came from. The madness was nearly unbearable, well, except for 'bots like Ratchet. It all did nothing but remind him of the days spent in that tiny little clinic, helping Cybertronians, just like he was now.

At the moment, it was a trine of wailing sparklings, all clinging to their carrier who looked at Ratchet with apologetic optics.

"I'm so sorry, we just came from Rodion and their sire had to go visit Tyger Pax to check on his sister, and, well, they like him better," she said while sounding a pitiful chuckle, trying to juggle her little ones around as well as pull out belongings from her subspace to calm their distraught. But the sparklings weren't the only ones filled with heaps of stress.

Ratchet smiled, knowingly, and watched the way the screeching bitlets shifted on their carrier, digits clinging and legs wrapping around chassis and pelvic plating just to be as close to their carrier as possible and as away from the mess of unfamiliar ‘bots around them. With a motion, he shifted closer even as the children rubbed their face plates away.

"Now, now, that's no way to treat your carrier," he tutted. "She carried you through enough quartexs already, she shouldn't have to carry you for more. Besides . . ." Reaching underneath the table, he pulled out a box of rust sticks. "You won't be able to munch on these if you don't let go."

Almost immediately the wails stopped. Now, three sets of bright violet optics beamed his way, ogling those delicious treats. Ratchet was patient and waited until the little ones were comfortable enough to unlatch themselves. It was only one at the moment, but as soon as he reached out and took the offered goodie, his sisters followed afterwards, taking their own time before securing the treat. And while the set were sitting on the other side of the medical table munching on the sticks, Ratchet turned his smile to their parent.

"There, while they're busy, let's take a look at you." Ratchet pressed closer, casual scans already sliding down the femme’s frame. She mouthed a silent thanks as Ratchet ran her diagnostics and checked over her circuit components. The way she constantly glanced toward her huddle of offspring didn’t go unnoticed, though given the obvious stress and underlining turmoil Ratchet was amazed the carrier could still find a means to smile, even at her demanding little Unicrons.

"Nothing too serious, but I would suggest raising your energon levels. He nodded toward her chassis. "I noticed the teats were moist, still suckling?" He glanced over toward the sparklings again. By the size they boasted, and the way they handled the rust sticks, their carrier shouldn't need to be nursing. It just wasn't necessary.

Her answer began with a shrug. "It's been rough in Rodion, especially lately. Sometimes maintaining energon levels come second to making sure they get what they need."

"It's rough here as well, but at least we have a reliable supply line." Taking out a datapad, Ratchet began assessing an order for the family. "I'm not going to have a carrier coding become a liability on my watch."

"You know, it never is." Ratchet glanced away from the processing order tab and looked at the blue femme. She was smiling at him, much in the same way she did at her children. "But we're all told that; the dangers of a carrier coding. I think it's a means for populace control, but you know, it's all a load of scrap. When I carried them there wasn't a day that went by that I regretted my decision because I got to know them and they got to know me." She tapped the center of her breast plating, the area where her spark chamber lay. "They nestled right here for the longest time, and even reached out to me when they moved into the gestation chamber. We were the best of friends before they even emerged. So, they understand when we're a little tight, a little low on the necessities we need, but all the same they understand just how important they are to me that they don't think twice about taking the remnants that I give them, even if it's all I have." She nodded then, her optics flickering toward Ratchet's chassis. "As one carrier to another, I think you can understand just as much."

Ever since Ratchet came into Polyhex it's been work, work, and more work. Recollections over his carry came only when he managed to stow away in his bunk for a few cycles of recharge only to have the bitlet inside him stretch and test the durability of the chamber's walls. Now, as soon as the femme mentioned their kinship, his hand fell down, laying over the place where he knew the sparkling had situated. And in that moment, he felt its field reach out to touch him, assuring him that it was still there.

Nodding, Ratchet's smiled softly. "I think I might."

"Your first?"

Ratchet nodded.

She seemed to excite more. "Oh, how wonderful! How many?"

Ratchet held up a single digit in answer. "And thank Primus." He nodded toward her trine. "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't know what I'd do if I had any more."

She chuckled, optics gazing lovingly toward her sparklings for a moment before looking back toward her doctor. "Even if just one, it is a blessing from the Well nonetheless. But, I am surprised you would be here doing what you do. My conjunx pulled me from factory work the moment we sparked. I would think yours is very worried."

Ratchet sounded a sigh, leaning back as he moved to finish the fill out on the pressing patient order. "Oh, he doesn't mind. Lately, I've been given a lot more liberty. It's nice." Very nice, especially with the mech dead, though to label him as anything close to an endurae was blasphemous, but the patient didn't need to know too much detail about the mech who sparked him. It’d be better for the both of them that way. "Nicer still that I get to help you." He patted her arm and then shifted in his chair to poke at the round tank of a munching sparkling. "And you three." Chirps and growls were only met with laughter. Laughter of which Ratchet enjoyed with the carrier while she shared her take on the process and her enthusiasm for his little one's arrival.

It was in that moment, regardless of the secrets and buried regrets, that Ratchet was finding himself just as excited for the new life soon to come into the world.

Nothing lasts forever.

The exciting trill his carrier coding gave him coupled with the satisfaction dispersing from his medical programing while he tended to the constant influx of ailing ‘bots were overshadowed the moment the halls blacked out.

Ratchet leaned back from the mech he was bent over, tools failing him as the blackout spread. He looked toward the staff who looked just as surprised and it was the moment Prowl moved out into the halls to speak with other standing guards that he understood the severity of the situation.

"Protesters at the plants?" Ratchet watched frustration and worry meld into Prowl's features even as he tried to keep his conversation between himself and the six other stationed Guard in the vicinity. He left him with only a glance as the group rounded the corner and moved to investigate the outage.

With the Elite Guard's absence, dwindling staff began murmuring in fear and aggravation, all of it carrying over to the plethora of patients crowded into the facility.

Two groons in, Ratchet had enough of it. "Will you stop your complaining? Doesn't this place have backup generators?"

They stared at him for a while, as if he had suddenly become monocular. It must have been Ratchet's pressing glare that urged them to respond.

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then why are we still sitting in the damn dark?" And they stood there for another moment, again. "Well?" Finally they scampered off and within the next few kliks, the lights returned as did the power for the equipment, because Primus knows Ratchet didn't want to have to resort to core supply.

Things seemed to return to normal after that. Even with the Guard still absent, the medibots and staff carried on in their duties and the 'bots inside were settled. It was the sudden feel of structural vibrations that startled them all again. First it was one shake and then another. And in the stillness to follow, worry heightened.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"It felt like demolition."

"Nothing's scheduled for the likes of that."

"Primus! What do you think it could be?"

Ratchet was about to run through the lines to call for placidity, but suddenly a score of mecha poured into the hospital, a majority of them sporting ugly wounds, wounds you can't get from simple skirmishes or even nasty servo collision fights. Those were thermo scorches, and they were caused by photon explosions or by blasters. Ratchet was reluctant to discover which culprit was the cause.

"Clear a space!" These were policebots, ones Ratchet was certain were stationed along the western border of the city. That they were coming to him in such a state startled him and gnawed at his nervous drives all the more.

"What happened?" Ratchet and two other medibots were scanning over the damages while the mecha groaned and hissed in pain. No resolving answer was uttered and so Ratchet pressed again, "What happened out there?" He was looking at who he assumed the commander was, waiting for him to respond when one of the cadets with a ruptured foreleg springer spoke up saying, "They threw grenades at us and then through the smoke they fired." He was shaking his helm, clearly rattled by the encounter.

"They?" One of the medibot's pressed.

"The anti-functionists," the cadet replied once more.

Slag. They were under siege.

"Regardless of what occurred, prioritize my mecha's repairs and then everyone needs to head to the station and transport out of the city," the commander said, tall and stern and pressing.

"Evacuation? What about the other citizens?" Ratchet watched the commander’s stress splay across his facial features.

"We're doing what we can," he replied and then nodded back toward the ailing policebots. "Get them fixed."

He moved, leaving them and heading back outside. Frustration seethed within Ratchet, but the rising fright in those around him pressed him to finish the duties at hand and concern himself with the growing dissent later.

As soon as the mecha were repaired they assisted the medibots and staff with gathering the patients. The rush was sloppy and more than most left personal belongings behind along with supplies that might be necessary in the coming strife. There were plenty of regrets to dwell on as they marched to the station, but as soon as Ratchet caught sight of Prowl along with many other clustered Guard he moved away from the mass and pressed close to him.

"Prowl! What's going on? I was told there's an evacuation. What about the rest of the city?" Ratchet felt his tank churn when he watched Prowl nod.

"For citizen safety, a city-wide evacuation’s been issued," he said, and it looked as if that would have been all he would willingly confer hadn't the carrying medic reached out and grasped his arm, squeezing to garner and maintain attention.

"What is going on?"

Even in Prowl's reluctance he relented. Leaning, he lowered his frequency, "There's been an attack, and we just got word there's sightings of incoming hostiles."

"They're—?"

Prowl nodded. "They have weapons, Ratchet, and they're marching into the city." There was no masking just what that was.

The news disturbed the medic, more than anyone present could understand. For the past few weeks while Ratchet worked in the hampered city there have been talks, rumors, and assumptions of an event like this, but he continued to suppress the likelihood of such because he still wanted to believe it was all a phase, a simple if not crude standoff that would eventually end in compromise. But that wasn't the case now anymore, was it?

The distress in Ratchet's field was so high that he barely noticed Prowl brush him with his own.

"Ratchet." Prowl was reaching out this time, placing hands on him and turning him toward the transport. "Please, leave the city with the others."

Ratchet was nodding, even moving in the direction he was being guided, but before he even moved through the doors of the rail car he halted. He stood there for a moment in deep process before he twisted and moved back toward the Praxian Guard.  "No, wait, if there's a confrontation there will be injuries, and if we all leave then who will help with the inevitable repairs?" Ratchet's stress was peaking, pushing into heavy worry even as his friend tried to send comforting frequencies. "I'll-I'll stay. Prowl, if you need someone to stay, I will."

"No, no." Prowl rose his voice, putting a stop to Ratchet's suggestion. Once more he was patting his friend. "No, Ratchet. The best thing for you to do is go with the others. It's not just you anymore, remember?"

It took some time before Ratchet relented. "Alright, fine. But be careful, Prowl."

Prowl nodded but promised nothing because they both knew it wasn't possible to keep it. Certainly not that day.

It was hard stepping into transport, harder still was leaving the city knowing that there were 'bots left behind and wouldn't be able to make it out before the invasion.

Invasion. Primus, just what was becoming of Cybertron?

Was this really happening? Was this all being allowed, encouraged? Was this really it?

Even in the crowded space Ratchet felt extremely alone. With frames packed so tight EM fields tangled and familiarized. He could feel the unease and instability in the 'bots surrounding him. There was no comfort to be had, not for them and especially not for himself.

The sparkling shift then, and as soon as Ratchet’s hand came and rubbed over the general area his field tingled with the small spurs of its outstretching electromagnetic radius. Ratchet's been feeling the little one more lately. At that stage he knew when it was happy, when it was confused, even when it was upset, but in the same manner, so too did the child. And as if in reaction they would both reach out curiously and intimately. It was in those interactions that Ratchet's begun to find a fondness for his offspring, just as much as the little one was already so fond of him.

 _We have to leave now_ , Ratchet would send to the fluttering protoform. _Everything will be alright_. Even as he said that, even as he assured the child and himself he still felt a return of confusion, of questions that pelted against his very spark chamber. The child knew he was afraid, but with all of the conflicting reasons it found itself in a whirl of confusion, so Ratchet pressed back, petting the turbulent field and replied with, _Don’t worry. We're safe_.

His unusual shifts brought in the curious optics of the medibot seated adjacent from him. Right when Ratchet was about to tell the mech to mind his own business the rail transport lurched. Startled cries broke into the atmosphere right before the car slid to a complete halt. One last jerk tumbled mecha over each other and suddenly they were still.

Frightened sobs rung as did a multitude of nervous questions. There was a struggle to move toward the windows to see what had happened outside, and even more of a fight to file toward the exits. When Ratchet finally managed to spill out of the car he took in a horrific sight.

The engine car had been completely thrashed, and the car closest to it was caught up in the damage. Pained moans and groans and yells resounded and just as the other medibots rounded around Ratchet they took off to rush toward the injured.

"Let me see him!" Ratchet had to push back frantic 'bots just to get to the one pinned underneath the weight of the tipped car. The mech was screaming, clawing at the place where plating sunk in and nervous circuitry frizzed and sparked. Immediately, Ratchet dug his hands into the thigh clips and cut the receptor program from the module. He then turned to the 'bots worried friends and family and nodded to them. "Help me get him propped up."

They did as they were told and as soon as Ratchet had sawed off the ligaments he ordered the others to pull him clear and in the midst of horrified screaming Ratchet sealed off the wiring. A quick scan showed stabilizing schematics and with that confirmation he moved to the next injured. He'd gotten about three of the injured until sirens blared in the distance. Standing up, Ratchet was met with a squadron of policebots, all led by a Guard, a Praxian Guard.

"Primus!" Prowl gasped. He was to Ratchet's side in an instant, bright optics looking over the spilt energon covering his plating. It took a moment before he realized it wasn't Ratchet's leakage, but the horror never fell from his face plates. "Is everyone alright?"

Ratchet motioned to the damage. "No one's extinguished as far as I can tell, but they're hurt, Prowl. We need air lifts, now."

Prowl nodded, zoning in on the damage done to the engine and the collateral around. Ratchet saw something click inside that processor of his and then he watched those optics flash.

"Get down!" Prowl had screamed and tackled Ratchet to the ground one moment, the next a barrage of explosions rattled the area around them.

Ratchet landed on his backside with a grunt, optical visage spinning only until dilation stabilized and the skies above buzzed with passing jets. They were dropping bombs.

Nothing was direct, and more debris and dust spewed up than the usual savagery entailing an air raid, but even as those jets flew past, the high pitched whine of flying plasma, photon, and ion cartridges pierced every audio receiver and as well as pierced a few frames, notably of the policebots.

They were under attack.

Startled cries and pained gasps fell over the police mecha. Ratchet had a clear sight of one mech rattled with plasma charges until his chest cavity fell to pieces. With a crumbled spark chamber, Ratchet watched the mech's optics flicker until the light expired and, just like that, his spark extinguished right as his discoloring frame fell to the ground.

Prowl jumped to his pedes a moment later, motioning for the civilians and his mecha to fall behind the overturned car. "Fall back! Fall back!" He commanded.

There wasn't enough time to pull everyone back and there were those that got caught in the crossfire. Ratchet had managed to catch a glimpse of the oncoming assaulters rushing in. His spark pulsated with such speed he felt his systems ramp and teeter near overdrive.

It was when Prowl and the remaining policebots fired back that Ratchet felt the scratches of a worried small EM field. With his hand protectively against his chassis, Ratchet shifted, doing his best to keep out of the mayhem. Against best efforts even Ratchet understood the dire circumstance and with a twist, Prowl looked toward the huddled masses, especially Ratchet, and said, "Get out of here!"

Ratchet didn't have to be told twice. He gathered those with the most resolute mainframes and had them lead the retreat while he and the other medibots took to assisting the damaged and wounded. They managed a quick pace from the fright of it all, but after a greater distance separated them from the heavy lay of fire the mass began to cling to groups and break apart, rushing toward every direction.

“Where is everyone going?!” Ratchet and the medical mecha watched the dispersion. They also watched as those same breaks came running back, chased at the heels by enclosing mecha, all of them wielding blasters in their servos.

"On your knees!" They demanded, and when the onslaught of fright continued to freeze the crowds they motioned their weapons towards the frightened faces. "Now!"

The pressure worked and in the next moment the defenseless mecha were knelt, hands raised in defeat. Ratchet looked at their captors. He didn't recognize them, however they seemed like the kind of ruffians the movement was unfortunately attracting in the recent times.

One feature that Ratchet didn't let go unnoticed was the sigil they seemed to bear, violet and triangular. Each 'bot had one.

"Geargrind, find the medibots, Cross Spike, lead the rest to the elysian sector." A large brown mech gave the orders, sneering even as his mecha moved to follow these commands.

Ratchet was pulled out of the crowd along with the sixty-seven other medics. Frightened sounds hitched and pitched while the mass was prodded and pushed into a march. All lead away from the remainder.

"Where are you taking them?" A medibot spoke up.

"There are wounded. Please, let one of us go and be with them!" Another pleaded. And Ratchet could feel the sickening sensation of consciously leaving an injured mech behind.

"Silence!" The medics flinched away from the pressing aggression. "None of that is important right now." Even in their threats and ill intentions, Ratchet and the others watched the way these offending mecha snickered, pulling their weapons to the side and nodding them in the direction they too were to march. "What does is your induction into the Decepticons. We're in an awful shortage of medical personnel. Your contribution will be much appreciated."

Confused and wary glares passed between the medibots, but with previous threats, no one dared utter a word for fear of aggravating this unstable comradery. When they were prodded they moved. Where they were led seemed like it aimed back toward the city, and soon enough Ratchet and the others passed an unseen border with fellow agents spilling out into the open, looking at the roundup with curious optics.

Each one had that violet sigil.

"Got them," the brown mech said as he moved toward a greeting posse. "They tried to scramble them all out of the city, but I had Cross Spike blast the engine. Wasn't hard to overrun them after that."

The mech the commander was talking to was a familiar face, one that was looking at the group of captured medics, one that was looking directly at Ratchet. Overlord.

"You want me to take them to the boss?" The brown mech waved to the quiet medibots.

Overlord didn't say anything for a moment and his stall stirred curiosity within their ranks. Finally, he shifted, his face hard, stern, but his optics bright. He looked at the underling and nodded.

"Go ahead." And once again they were being prodded to move, but as soon as Ratchet's row moved past Overlord and his observing sentries the blue mech reached out his hand and wrapped it around Ratchet's arm. "Except this one."

More confusion arose but soon enough it was accepted with optics turned and shrugs. "Do what you want," was the last thing the 'bots had said before ushering the rest of the medibots away while Ratchet was left in the fields both foreign and familiar.

"Ratchet?"

"Is that him?"

"No way."

"Is it really?"

Ratchet shifted in Overlord's grip. A plea in his optics and vocals. "Overlord, I—"

"Be quiet." Overlord's pitches were deep, harsh, just as it was when he dragged him away from the others toward a more secluded region. It was there he tossed Ratchet down.

The rough treatment wasn't necessarily unlike Overlord but the gun in his hand, pointed toward Ratchet was.

Raising his hands, Ratchet inched away. "Overlord, what are you doing?"

There was a sneer on the mech's face. Hate filled those optical lights. Ratchet could even feel it in his field. "What should have been done."

Ratchet's back side struck a spire. Overlord meant to kill him this time, didn't he?

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Overlord swayed with frustration. "The cause, the choices we had to put up with because _he_ let himself be swayed by you, _you_ who left us, who abandoned us to waltz back into hierarchy, forgetting us and everything we've ever done for you. And that fool still, STILL, listened. You know why? It’s because you conditioned him. Everything you say he does, so, for the good of this cause, I have to make sure you never get the chance to speak again."

Bright optics watched the blaster charge. Mouth parted, Ratchet wanted to say something, anything to the mech he once knew, but there was no time to sway, only to utter regret, and remorse into his collapsing field for the life stolen from the one inside him, and just as Ratchet felt the sparkling’s fright strike him in the spark, the screech of magnetic brakes pierced the atmosphere the same time the plasma charge did. Ratchet watched the terrain speeder transform into a familiar frame, colliding into Overlord as soon as his shot rang out. The charge missed Ratchet by a small margin, one he intended to widen as he jumped to his pedes the moment the struggle unfurled before him.

For the sake of his frightened offspring, there was a need to run, but Ratchet stood frozen, back plating pressed against the spire as he watched Prowl ram himself into Overlord over and over, hooking him, punching him, pushing him back. He was fast, and the surprise of it all was in the Elite Guard’s favor. But Ratchet knew Overlord, he’d seen his fights. He knew that as soon as he found his bearings nothing could contest him.

And that is exactly what happened.

Twisting, Overlord rammed his elbow into Prowl’s chassis. There was a loud crunch and a gasp of pain escalating out of the stumbling Praxian. Disoriented, Prowl was in no position to guard himself from the well thrusted fist jamming into his jaw. The hinges were knocked loose instantly and Ratchet watched in horror as Prowl stumbled to the ground, mouth plate hanging open by a single pin.

And there it was, Overlord’s bout of victory as he climbed over the fallen, taking Prowl’s helm in his hand and smashing it against the ground. He was known to repeat this move until the losing combatant was unrecognizable as well as offline. Ratchet couldn’t let him do that.

Megatron was one of the few who’s ever bested the large mech, and Ratchet’s seen it. As unfortunate as it is to know of the blue mech’s brutish ways, he also knew of his weaknesses, ones he’s seen exploited over and over again, ones that were open right now.

In the thrill of pending victory, Overlord was blinded to any chance of a turnaround, which gave Ratchet the opportunity to come up and slice his back ligament cords. The gladiator had fallen to a knee, startled, though he retaliated quickly, swinging around and aiming a strike toward the medibot. But Ratchet surprised him again with a clean slice to his wrist rotators, having managed to simply sidestep that swing.

And right there was Ratchet’s mistake. In savoring the accomplishment of disabling a leg and servo, he miscalculated Overlord’s reaction timing. Despite his shock he responded with his other servo, the one holding a blaster. He pushed the barrel into Ratchet’s abdominal section so hard that it nearly indented into his plating, but the startle didn’t come from that, it came from the arising pain right after Overlord pulled the trigger and ripped a charge into Ratchet’s frame.

Then he was hitting the ground. Overlord leaned over him, keeping Ratchet there as he pressed that barrel against his neck.  “Did you really think you could resist your end? Did any of you think you could change a thing? Cybertron belongs to us, to the Decepticons, and you have no place here!”

Ratchet was too dazed, too focused on the pain from dissolving abdominal plating and wiring, too cluttered with mounting notifications popping up and alerting every damage taken to focus on the way Overlord’s blaster whined for another charge. However, he wasn’t at all too taken away to remember the moment Overlord’s frame fell off of him by a powerful thermo pellet. The sound of it hitting the blue mech’s frame still echoed in Ratchet’s audio receptors even as he struggled to his hands and knees, turning to see Overlord’s mangled frame twitching some distance away.

Whipping his helm around Ratchet caught visage of a red mech. He was sneering, the scowl on his features was that of absolute disgust, and for a moment Ratchet worried he would turn those hate-filled optics toward him, but as soon as he did, the mech moved his gun away and approached him.

“Are you alright?” His concern reminded Ratchet of his own, the one that was tugging at his plating, trying to feel for something, _anything_. His previous attempts to contact the sparkling’s wellness through his field had failed, there had been no response, and Ratchet was scared to death. The Red mech seemed to notice his motions, those blue optics of his flashing. “Primus, are you carrying?” Strong hands pulled Ratchet to unstable pedes, and as soon as he was upright, Ratchet swayed himself back toward where Prowl had been crumbled.

His spark pulsed so fast that Ratchet could feel his systems click into overdrive. He felt so hyperaware of everything, everything save for that damn sparkling inside him and his friend just underneath him. Ratchet fell to his knees and quickly placed his hands on Prowl.

“Prowl, Prowl, please!” Ratchet moved his hand to cup the hanging jaw and then to the caved side of his helm. “Prowl, flash your optics at me. Do something!” There it was, a small flicker, but it was a recognition. A wave of relief rushed through Ratchet and ended too quickly while he turned to their savior. “What’s your designation?”

“Ironhide,” he said. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I need you to carry him. This area isn’t safe.” Ratchet watched the red mech nod, a smirk pushing at his features as he came closer and hoisted Prowl into his arms.

“I know,” Ironhide had said. “The reason I came here.”

Standing back up, Ratchet gasped. Optics flickered as his hands flew down to his damaged chassis. He could feel the gapes and broken plates that were partially, if not mostly dissolved by the hit. The heat of his sizzling circuits felt made muscle cabling twitch uncontrollably, but it was heavily ignored as he limped forward, intent to keep pace with the red mech.

Every couple of paces Ratchet continued to reach out to the sparkling, pleading for some form of verification, but each reach was met with emptiness and it tore the medibot up so much that he eventually stumbled to a halt. Ironhide had taken notice and turned to give him a quizzical look.

“You need carried too?” He questioned.

Leaning, Ratchet held himself still, shaking his helm even as his vocals cracked with static. “Keep going,” he insisted.

“I ain’t gonna do that.” Ratchet could see Ironhide’s shadow covering him, but even as the mech stood so close, he couldn’t focus on him, or even Prowl’s near stasis form in the mech’s arms. All he could do was fall into hysteria over what he couldn’t know for certain. “Come on, get up. You had no trouble walkin’ before.” The mech nudged him, and that pushed Ratchet too far.

“Don’t touch me!” Ratchet backed away, his face full of worry and grief. Just by letting the red mech see made Ratchet feel vulnerable and so he turned away, walking a short distance just to collect himself, just to ask one more time if they could hear him. They didn’t respond.

That was when Ratchet noticed his frame was shaking, rattling while his arms wound around himself as if to keep his structure from falling to pieces. The next thing he noticed was strong hands falling on him.

“Hey now, you were hurt too. Can’t be holding onto something like that without letting me at least take a look.” Ratchet let Ironhide turn him and when the mech scanned down his chassis, the face he made let Ratchet understand just what he felt. But the red mech still leaned forward, hands gentle for a ‘bot who took down a mech like Overlord, yet, even in that gentleness, he couldn’t properly pull plating aside to verify any worry or relief.

“Stop, just stop.” Ratchet shook him away. “It’s all melted, there’s no way to check.” He looked away, trying to swallow the fright that was overtaking his senses, as well as the shame.

Ironhide relented, but his worry riddled field was still felt. Eventually, it was him who broke the carried silence. “What a mess this is.” Ratchet glanced his way, watching the mech shake his helm. Despite gruff appearances, he could see his actual concern for the circumstances around them. He looked at Ratchet then. “What say you, doc? You think this is all some untimely coup or do you think it’s worse than that? Give me your honest diagnosis.”

This Ironhide was wanting Ratchet to admit everything? Out loud?

“It’s not going to get better.” Ratchet was sure of it by now. “This isn’t just some small uprising or rowdy protest, this is war.” He looked to Ironhide and he watched the mech shake his helm. There was reluctant acceptance in the light of his optics, but understanding as well.

Ratchet what’s the red mech move. He knelt down and picked Prowl up again, moving back toward Ratchet. “Well, if that’s the case then I’m gonna get the two of you out of here, ‘cause we’re gonna need mecha like him,” he nodded to Prowl, and then to Ratchet, “especially you.”

He motioned him once and that was all it took for Ratchet to follow the mech’s lead. They moved in silence while Ironhide constantly scanned their surroundings. Ratchet wasn’t quite sure where they were anymore. He hadn’t the slightest reason to care, not when all of said concern was being overridden by a dominating program, a program pushing him to keep trying to connect to the silent protoform inside him.

“Any reply?” Ratchet glanced over to Ironhide who looked at him with concern.

Looking away, Ratchet shook his helm, biting into his bottom lip plate at the agony coiling inside him over this fact. Yet, he continued to try even as each attempt left him a little more desolate inside.

“Keep on tryin’,” Ironhide said. There was a smile on his lip plates. “If they’re anything like they’re carrier, I’m sure they’re fine.”

The comment was complimenting, and would have been comforting hadn’t Ratchet felt so sick with worry he was ready to purge. With the sight and state of Prowl, Ratchet’s medical programing was beating him down, and with the constant quiet from the being inside his gestational chamber, his carrier coding was pulling at him until he was certain he’d be ripped apart.

He ached for a proper facility with functioning equipment so he could help Prowl, so he could help himself in knowing just what became of his offspring, and it was that ache that moved Ratchet forward, moved him to keep pace with Ironhide despite the limp, despite the spreading damage. Ratchet wanted to blame his flashing warnings clogging his HUD for his lack of notice of the nearby hostiles. The hostiles that shot Ironhide’s left knee rotators out.

“Ah!” The red mech went down fast and Prowl rolled out of his arms faster. Ratchet followed his position and hit the ground as fire zoomed over them from an unknown location. Even in the predicament, Ironhide forced himself up onto his other knee and fired back. The sound of a pained cry was rewarded for his aim and in that he turned to Ratchet, jutting his chin to Prowl’s immobile frame. “Take cover!”

Scurrying over as fast as he could, Ratchet tugged at Prowl’s frame. Ignoring his own pained reactions, the medibot dragged him until he was able to hide behind a spire. From there Ratchet observed the attack.

Ironhide was out in the open, and there was more than one gunmech, but that didn’t stop the red mech from surrendering. In fact, Ratchet watched a ferocity ignite within him and with deadly accuracy, Ironhide downed three ‘bots in a round of succession. The only downside was that it took a moment for Ironhide’s cannon to recharge after the melee.

Ratchet saw Ironhide attempt to bring out another gun, but this one was shot out of his servo along with a few digits. Another shot landed against his shoulder strut, eating through metal. Ratchet felt a tug to go to him, and this time he didn’t hesitate to do just that.

Zigzagging his way to the mech, Ratchet slid to his knees and laid hands on him, immediately digging his digits into Ironhide’s pending cannon core. The red mech whipped his helm around, glaring at Ratchet.

“What on Cybertron are you doing?! I said to take cover!” With a grunt Ironhide hunched over after a shot struck him in the abdominal plating. It was easy to see he was made of sterner stuff than most mecha, no doubt having rightly earned that designation.

“Shut up and let me help you!” Ratchet felt the subtle burns of an ionic cartridge phase right next to his fore plating. The close shot wasn’t forgotten and spurred the medibot to quicken his work, the work that was diverting the cannon’s core cabling to its stabilizer power computer.

“What are you doing?!” Ironhide’s optics were bright as he watched Ratchet shift the cannon in his grasp, having the both of them balance it with their frames.

“Just focus on pulling that trigger!” Ratchet shot back, and with his aim and Ironhide’s pull, the cannon’s power ramped and shot at the vicinity where the enemy fire was coming from. Crackling and sizzling echoed around them. For a moment, everything was silent.

The recoil had jarred the both of them, but now that the threat was neutralized there was no need to worry about another diverted charge. Just as the cannon cluttered to the ground Ironhide let out a laugh.

“Primus damn! That was some stunt you pulled. Reckless in that the end result really was unpredictable, but definitely a trick I’ll have to remember for later use.” Ironhide was shaking his helm, leant back on his hands as the smoke cleared.

“I’d rather you not.” Ratchet shifted, laying hands on the ruined knee gearing. Pulling out pliers, he began to assess the damage and hope that there was a means to mend it even if it was temporarily because there was certainly no way he’d be able to carry Prowl in his own state.

Before he could even start up his welder, bits and slates of red plating flew at Ratchet the moment a charge broke through Ironhide’s chassis structure. The shock scrawled over Ratchet’s features were of similar kind to the ones Ironhide expressed even as his optics flickered and he fell into stasis. After that the atmosphere filled with an onslaught of whining charges.

Shaken, but not frozen, Ratchet reached out for that cannon. The moment he turned to fire a force knocked the gun from his hands just as a strong grip took hold of his arms and bent them until he twisted around. His helm met the ground harder than before, hard enough for static to spot his vision and right after that his paneling began shutting down. He didn’t really know what happened after the blackout.

. . .

If those anti-functionists—who were now going by the name of Decepticons, according to some sources—were to make an offensive strike anywhere of course it would be Polyhex. And even in the sheer audacity of it all, populace reaction to it simply lined along startled gaps and deepening disappointment. It was no doubt those lackluster reactions that unimpressed Sentinel Prime and his Guard, moving to lift no servo at all in aid.

That lack of decency burned the likes of Orion Pax, especially when he recalled two close friends stationed in said besieged city.

“They’re doing nothing, NOTHING, absolutely nothing!” Jazz was seething just as much as the other three were. “No shifting regiments, no diversion of supplies, slag there isn’t one ship scheduled for transport today.”

“But there can be,” Thunderclash said, optics narrowed and bright. “I don’t give a damn about conduct or code, if you all want to hitch a ride to Polyhex then I’m your pilot.”

“But what’ll we do when we get there?” They turned to Orion. The mech’s frustrated features hadn’t changed since they met up. He was shaking his helm. “Have you seen what it looks like right now? Though I’d do my damnedest to find Ratchet and Prowl, even I know my limitations, our limitations. A band of four won’t be able to break through those kind of lines.”

Pharma sounded a loud sigh, hands rubbing at his face. “Ugh! Why? A deca-cycle, a deca-cycle, Ratchet was supposed to be back in just a deca-cycle. Couldn’t those damn terrorists have waited until then?”

“What are you proposing we do, OP?” Jazz looked toward Orion, limbs taut and joints bent as if he was ready to sprint. They all were. “You may, but I can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

“I’m with Jazz on this one,” Thunderclash said, looking at Orion as well. “I’m not going to sit aside this time around, not when I have the ability to at least try and help.”

Orion was quiet for a moment, listening to his friends’ resolutions and taking in the severity of their weighted fields. He understood, just as they did in what they’d be moving into, and just as they did Orion knew the dangers and the likelihood of not just risking Prowl and Ratchet’s lives, but their own. If he could avoid that he would, and so he’d have to fight to make Iacon see their sparks.

“Let’s have one final opinion before we go.”

Orion took them to the Grand Imperium, he took them to Sentinel Prime.

Checkpoints were ran over and hindering guards were pushed aside in their attempt to force an audience with the Prime. By the end of their march, Orion Pax, Thunderclash, Jazz, and Pharma had made themselves enmities with the Elite Guard and risked confinement as squads chased their path down into the Prime’s lounge bay.

“Sentinel Prime!” Orion and the others dashed in before their pursuers could detain them, and it was Thunderclash who proceeded in locking the entrance for the few private moments they needed.

The large mech looked surprised and stood at alarm, him and his guests, many of them being members of the High Council as well as a few members of the new Senate.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Prime looked livid, but even in his aggressive field, it was Orion who stepped into that dangerous zone.

“Polyhex is under attack, what do you plan to do about it?” Orion’s question seemed to move the Prime out of his offense and toward the pressing concern. Despite Sentinel’s placement, everyone could see that the subject had indeed been on his processor.

“You’ve come all the way here, antagonized my mecha, just to ask me this?” Sentinel looked startled, confused, and lastly, impressed.

Orion nodded. “We came because we want an answer, one the entire populace of Cybertron hasn’t been given yet.”

“Because it hasn’t been decided,” Sentinel returned. He waved at them. “And you’ll wait with the rest of them until it is.”

“And when will that be?” Thunderclash spoke up, taking a step forward. He came and stood next to Orion, field pushing, stance bold. “When the city is razed to the ground? When its citizens are dismembered, disassembled, and decimated? When will you make up your damn processer about Polyhex?”

“When I damn well please.” Sentinel was glaring, waving at the crew. “Now get out of here before I make you. This is no place for ‘bots such as yourselves.”

“And why not?” Orion nor the others spoke up like this. Optics turned in the room to where a mech was seated. Obviously still in the process of healing, Senator Dai Atlas looked at the confrontation with bright optic paneling and stern features. “Officer Pax is a ‘bot who’s constantly confronting hostiles and the victims of such, Captain Thunderclash ferries supplies to sectors fighting to keep out of this rising divisive war, Jazz is the mech first receiving all of these distressed signals and cries for assistance, and Junior Medical Officer Pharma is just following his programing to assist those in crisis. If there are any ‘bots more suited for places like this it would be them.”

Orion looked to Dai Atlas, the mech nodded his helm just as his words silenced the antagonists. And it was from his acceptance, and his encouragement that the young policebot continued.

“A Prime promised protection and leadership in our darkest hours. Isn’t this one of them? You swore war on the anti-functionists, and in that we all believed that you would fight them, that you would fight for us. But here you are, bunkered in Iacon behind pulled forces you won’t share with any other city, not even if they submit and beg.” Orion was shaking his helm, glaring. “Is that what a Prime does?”

Silence continued, but at least everyone could see the listening optics of every ‘bot present. All of them looking at Orion as he stood tall, bold, and defiant, all for the sake of the people, for the sake of his friends.

“There’s a chance,” Orion began, his field outstretched as his hands were. “There’s a chance you can end this all, Sentinel Prime. There is a chance that this might be the time to stop them, to stop their advance in Polyhex. There might not be a definite end and the issues of Tarn, Vos, and Kaon are of themselves another subject, but what do you think they will do if you go to Polyhex with your mecha and push them back? What do you think they’ll think of Sentinel Prime and his Elite Guard after that?”

Sentinel’s optics swirled in thought. At times he would glance toward the others, speaking silently to them in the stew of process.

“I think it would give the people a chance to believe they can fight back against this onslaught,” Orion said, digits curled in resisting fists. “But they can’t start believing that on their own. Someone needs to start believing first, and that someone has to be the Prime.”

“Polyhex isn’t going to wait for you,” Jazz spoke up. “Every passing klik, that city comes closer to becoming another Kaon.”

There was something upsetting flashing across Sentinel Prime’s optics, a reaction they were all hoping to see. His facial features shifted, frowns tugged at his lip plates. After a moment he glanced back toward them, away from his processing thoughts and to the mecha standing in defiance.

“And just what would you do should I retract my decision to move?”

Orion squared his shoulder struts. “Then we would be the ones to answer Polyhex.”

“You’d be fools to rush into a field so perilous,” Sentinel warned.

“No,” Orion said. “The only fools I see are the ones standing here, disregarding fellow Cybertronians and their cities so that Iacon can be the last to fall.”

Sentinel Prime let out a short chuckle, one that made him smile. Pressing closer he looked at Orion, sizing him before he nodded. “You’re not a soldier, but you speak like one. My further inclination is whether or not you can fight like one.”

“If you give me a weapon I will fight to my best ability,” Orion assured. Willing. “I owe my people, and my friends that much.”

Sentinel Prime nodded again. “Very well, then I will see these skills on the fields on Polyhex.”

. . .

Static persisted in Ratchet’s monitors when he booted, and it took a short visage recalibration before the obstruction faded. Of course right after his display field clarified, the barrage of notifications warning him of his other ailments made themselves known. There were just so many that Ratchet didn’t have time to look at them all, nor focus on them.

Subtle thrums of electric sensory misfires made his ligaments twitch, and in their movement Ratchet realized how much pain he was actually feeling. His hand moved over his chassis, feeling the damaged plating, but as soon as his digits slipped between those gaps to assess exposed wiring, Ratchet felt sealant.

A groan heaved out as the medibot sat himself up on the berth he found himself in. He looked down and noticed the substantial care his frame was given. Temporary patches, but enough to stave off a majority of the pain he recollected from before.

In that surprise, Ratchet moved his optics. He was in a room, one of comfort. There was a desire to move and explore the destination he’d ended up in, but suddenly, something hit his spark. It was like a wave of energy, one that jolted Ratchet’s systems and surged his core. And the source was present, just to his right.

Turning, Ratchet’s optics brightened. There was Megatron, seated next to him.

Ratchet sat frozen. How long had it been since he’s seen his face? Since he’s seen his entire frame? Primus . . .

“I . . . I . . .” Ratchet had so much to say, so much that he’s dreamed he’d say if he ever got the chance. Though he never believed he’d . . .

Regardless of the slight changes to his frame, despite the fact Ratchet was in an unknown location, despite all of the things Ratchet needed to be focusing pressing concerns on now, Megatron was there, he was there within an arm’s reach, and he was looking at Ratchet the same way Ratchet was looking at him.

That hurt, that eating ache, that loneness; Ratchet was certain they were his own, but as his reaching hands mirrored Megatron’s leaning grasp, he wondered if it was all indeed shared. Because as that heated mouth met his own, Ratchet was sure the sadness he tasted came from Megatron just as much. And then came the hate, the hate for that sadness, for that loneliness, and so he pleaded with Megatron to take it all away—or was that Megatron pleading with him?

Ratchet didn’t at all hinder that glossa from invading his orifice, and suckled enthusiastically while Megatron’s frame leaned over him with constricting arms and hands that slid down his plating, gripping and grasping and holding. The touches seared Ratchet, each one burning as if to expel every impurity from his structure, and Ratchet wanted that, he wanted to be cleansed by Megatron right then and there.

Their mouths never really parted, even as sounds left lip plates in reminiscence from longed for touches coming into existence and moving them both until Megatron was above Ratchet. Rolling his frame, Megatron rubbed himself between Ratchet’s thighs until the medibot submitted entirely, and it didn’t take long at all before he rolled his helm back and accepted those demanding touches that tugged at plating just right, bending, shifting them all because Megatron could.

From the overbearing sensation of his singing spark and the feel of Megatron’s grope and caresses and kisses, Ratchet couldn’t be quite sure when that spike entered him, but his body moved for it regardless, fluent and easily. Automatic lubrication cycles ramped for the process, ensuring absolute blissful movement that shook the both of them. On the verge of shaking out of his very frame Ratchet clung to the form above his own, the one rocking him, piercing him and claiming every inch of his body as was his right.

Hands moved and cupped that helm. Ratchet tugged, holding tightly to kiss every sector of Megatron’s face while he moved, stretching his valve in all the right ways, erasing every feeling of the last occupant in an instant. The depths Megatron reached made Ratchet swoon with pleasure and pain. Calipers gripped and mesh and silicone expanded while that demanding appendage pushed through his channel and struck his deepest regions.

As soon as Megatron bumped against the frame of Ratchet’s gestational chamber he felt forgotten fear grip him. Even in his conjunx’s arms, Ratchet’s coding urged him to remember the sparkling he carried. A gasp passed his lips and into Megatron’s mouth as he moved harder, bringing their frames so close together they almost shifted into one structure.

Then those hands rose, up Ratchet’s sides and then over his damaged chassis plating. Like before; they tugged, bent even. It made Ratchet flinch, those touches igniting old wounds and displacing sealant. Where damaged plates mangled to the point of blocking melded latches, Megatron tore at those broken pieces until he was successful in prying Ratchet’s malformed chassis apart.

Denta grit and optical paneling flickered. Ratchet held back the pain spreading throughout his torso as he watched Megatron open him by force, as he watched him pry apart his spark chamber and stare into him. He didn’t deny him anything because in that moment he watched Megatron lean back, opening himself too. When that green light bathed him, Ratchet fell into himself, offlining his optics as Megatron leaned down and melded their sparks together.

Ratchet cried out, his sobs resounded from the pain, or possibly the agony that pulled itself out of the both of them in that moment. Trembling, he wound his arms around Megatron’s torso, clinging just as Megatron was. And even as Megatron moved, even as his spike continued to strike each sequenced sensory node, Ratchet couldn’t help but focus all of his being into the essence seeping into his spark. Of the sadness, of the distraught, of the regret, of the bitterness and hatred, Ratchet felt them all and he couldn’t tell if they were his own or if they were Megatron’s, but he accepted them and shared them nonetheless as Megatron kissed him and sobbed in return.

 _Megatron, oh! Megatron! I love you, I love you so much!_ Ratchet’s spark twirled, scraping against Megatron’s powerful spark, asking to be taken, to be held and covered and cared for. When Ratchet felt Megatron’s spark respond with its own rotation, with the way it rubbed against Ratchet’s it made Ratchet break down all over again. _Primus, I’m so sorry. Forgive me!_

 _Stay with me_ , Ratchet could feel Megatron’s spark carve into his chamber. Invaded and completely overtaken, Ratchet’s optics onlined and there was Megatron, looking at him with vivid, determined scarlet lights. He leaned down and kissed Ratchet once more. _I have you_. Ratchet shuddered as that spark pressed so close to his own he swore it was trying to overtake him entirely and just nestle there within his chamber. _I have you. Don’t make me let go again_.

From the way their hips collided, to the way their sparks rotated, it wasn’t long before their systems teetered into the crash of overload.

“Megatron!” Ratchet chocked out when the first waves of overload struck, hitting him so hard it knocked his systemic coding out of cycle. And from there he watched Megatron come undone. Pulling back, chassis still open, the silver mech arched his powerful frame, pressing his thrusts until he was as deep as he could be, and when he released his transfluid Ratchet began sobbing.

Hands rose, covering his face while he shook with grief. Even as Ratchet’s knees rubbed against Megatron’s pelvic plating, and his valve clamped down onto his mate’s heated spike, Ratchet still felt absolutely ruined, ruined to be there, to be taken like he had and ravished like Megatron still wanted him, like he still could stand looking at him even after everything he’s done.

Too gentle digits wrapped around Ratchet's wrist rotators. They tugged, pulling those hands away from his face. Ratchet watched Megatron press his hands against his face, kissing the palms as he did so. All too soon, Ratchet heard static lace own his vocal frequencies into cries of grief, and that was when Megatron heeded those cries with a mending kiss.

When the kiss ended and Ratchet's pitches persisted, Megatron kissed him again and again and again. And even though Ratchet felt as if he didn't deserve such affection he accepted it because he was selfish and he wanted Megatron, he wanted him so much.

Winding his arms around Megatron's shoulder structure, Ratchet returned those kisses as the larger rolled his body and began shifting inside him once again. It was slower, smoother, not an ounce of pain disrupted their pace, but the passion persisted, just as heightened as it was before. Ratchet took the time to feel Megatron, to remember the shape of those fluttering lip plates, the width of that rocking pelvic structure, and the stretch of that wonderful spike that always made his frame ache in all the right ways.

Vents of moans, of groans and high pitches left Ratchet's mouth at a consecutive pace, bouncing off the walls and returning to reverberate across his frame, shaking and rattling just the way Megatron made him. His thrusts rolled in powerfully, to sink in deep, and moving back, Megatron slid out slowly, gently as if he wanted Ratchet to remember him in each retreat, but as soon as another rock forward and embedded that spike inward again Ratchet remembered and memorized the curvature and the width and warmth and the way it stretched mesh, and the way it made him writhe each time. Those hands, those large dangerous hands slid down his frame, tapping over plating and digging in between seams to make Ratchet fall apart all the more. It was when those fingers slid into his open spark chamber that Ratchet felt his frame shift, pulling taut with pleasure while his valve constricted, enticing a sound from Megatron.

"Megatron!" Optics brightened and Ratchet arched, pleading for those wandering fingers to slip in further. And they did, gliding along the sides of his fluctuating spark while his frame rattled in bliss. Then Megatron took his trembling hands and guided them to his own exposed spark.

As unsteady as Ratchet’s hands were in that moment, more so he found himself shaking at the thought of touching Megatron’s spark. Did he deserve that? Of course he didn’t, but Megatron guided him there as if it was what he wanted.

His hesitation didn't go unnoticed and with a further tug, Megatron reached out in comfort. _I will never stop you from desiring to touch me_.

Ratchet wished he would because he didn't deserve this, any of it. After willingly letting go of his conjunx endura and submitting to another mech, how could Megatron still want him to touch him?

Probably for the same reason Ratchet wanted him to.

As Ratchet’s digits brushed against Megatron’s powerful spark, he gasped at the electric surges sizzling up his plating. It was mesmerizing, it always had been. And now that he was so close again, Ratchet didn’t want to pull away.

Hearing Megatron moan, feeling him lean into his touch made Ratchet swoon. And it was in these touches that the two found their release together.

Surges pulsed from their sparks, colliding essences in the most beautiful of ways. Ratchet huffed at the way his core heated from amplified chamber energy colliding with interface connective ecstasy. Megatron’s thrumming spike pushed into him, striking his nodes in perfect succession just as he released his deposit of transfluid.

There was something comforting in the way Megatron filled him, a sense of possession, of desire still that stirred Ratchet just as much as it stirred Megatron. With fans whirling and core ever warm, Ratchet reached up and grasped Megatron's helm, he went with his pull into the kiss they both ached for and he submitted even as Ratchet let his desire shift him until he was above, straddling Megatron. With a sway of his hips, Ratchet led their following pace. Quicker than their previous bout but none the less sensational.

Ratchet leaned, offlining his optics just so his minor sensors could guide him. A smile tugged at his features every time he rolled his hips down to lodge their bodies together, and when he felt wandering hands skimming over his spark chamber and then down toward abdominal plating Ratchet was ready to vocalize his approval, but before he could make any sort of pitch he stuttered, optics flickering online the klik he felt it: a shift in his gestational chamber.

A small gasp of surprise vented, but then Ratchet felt Megatron buck and he moaned, moaned even as he felt another slight shift. Reaching down he pressed his hand against Megatron's, clinging even as he moved, as he felt the subtle taps of a familiar field against his own. The sparkling survived, and Ratchet's coding made his systems ramp in elation.

But then Ratchet felt the protoform do something that made his core seize. Just as its consciousness tapped against Ratchet's, it then turned and lightly patted against Megatron's field. Horror flooded Ratchet's senses, knowing, _knowing_ how his conjunx would react to the child inside him, especially given that it was the offspring of a mech he killed. So, before his mate could react, Ratchet leaned down and kissed him.

He could feel the beginnings of a notice within Megatron's field, but with his mouth over his and his hands running along open chassis seams, the ex-gladiator's attention fell away from the being previously tapping for his attention and instead focused his passion, his adoration, and his lust on the mech he wound his arms around and thrust his spike into.

At so close Megatron arched to connect their sparks again. Ratchet moaned, optics brightening as the surge of their merge sent him into the spirals of overload. Slumping back, Ratchet was glad for the strong arms holding him and now laying him down.

Contentment flooded his systems. Ratchet could only focus on the mech leaning over him, the one kissing him, running his lips down his neck cabling, down his shoulder structure and then against his open chassis plates.

Clipped sounds tumbled out of Ratchet's intake as Megatron mouthed at his spark. Surges of energy pulsed and tendrils danced around that handsome face, and Ratchet was taken away by all of it. Megatron wasn't wedged inside him anymore but just the simple ministrations and grazing lip plates and denta along his sensitive spark had the medibot shuddering and on the verge of another overload. He was certain that the moment he felt Megatron rub three digits into his valve he let his systems fall off their diagrams.

The way Megatron looked pleased by the state he brought Ratchet to made him smile and he couldn't help but pull that mech into another kiss even though it lived shortly by Megatron's insistence to carry on his work of mouthing down Ratchet's frame. Those lip plates, that glossa, and the denta all ended against Ratchet's valve and didn't at all move until another overload was ripped out of him.

By the time their interfacing sessions satisfied the both of them, Megatron's spike was nestled within Ratchet's moist valve and their chassis' were pressed close enough to still feel their leftover shared energy. Ratchet couldn't take his optics off of the one lying next to him, and neither could Megatron.

Ratchet didn't regret it, none of it. But as Megatron rubbed his hands down his frame, so too did he, now consciously noticing the subtle changes. Megatron got a new alt mode.

The curiosity as to what it was remained at bay, especially when Ratchet rationally took in the cannon situated on his mate's right arm. It looked installed. Those same wary optics inevitably fell to a sigil borne across Megatron's chassis.

Red digits ran over the grooves and curves of the mark. A violet triangular shape. Even Megatron.

"What's this?" Ratchet's vocals wavered. It's been some time since he last spoke.

A hand came to hold onto Ratchet's and it's against that sigil Megatron held him. "What else but the face of the movement?"

Ratchet looked at Megatron. He looked at him for some time, trying to find any form of doubt, of regret. There was none, only a fiery pride burning within his conjunx's optics. It was in Megatron's confidence that Ratchet felt his tank churn.

His field must have given away his unease because Megatron was shifting onto his elbow, looking at him with worry. Ratchet didn't want him to pull out and away from him, but he did.

"What's wrong?" Megatron placed tender hands on him, even as he did, Ratchet couldn't stop staring at that cannon. Megatron only followed that gaze. "Is it this?"

Now, Ratchet was shifting himself, sitting up and looking away. He tried to keep it all to himself because he knew that if he let it eat at him then it'd just drag him away from Megatron, just like it had before.

"Ratchet?"

"What is all of this, Megatron?" Finally Ratchet twisted himself back to the mech seated beside him. "The movement, _Decepticons_? Polyhex is under attack and . . . is that what it's come to?"

Then he watched Megatron retract himself. That open shine in his optics flickered away, and his eased posture tensed. He closed himself and Ratchet's spark began to ache all over again.

"Don't play this like it is all our blame." Megatron shook his helm. Reminiscent of troubling times. "This end was unavoidable."

Even as Megatron backed his field away, Ratchet only pressed his close again. "What end? The one bombarding Polyhex? Is that where your fight for equality led you?"

Ratchet felt offense surge in Megatron's field. "We are _still_ fighting for that freedom."

"What about the Polyhexians' freedom? Or are they just the first you have to step on before you achieve your utopia?"

With the way Megatron looked at Ratchet the medibot had believed he would lash back against that comment, but it didn't come to that. Instead Megatron shifted, his field opening a little more as he reached out and laid his hand over Ratchet's abdomen, over where his sparkling settled. There was the slightest tinges of regret swirling within Megatron's field, but the look in his optical lighting was far more tender than Ratchet could have ever expected.

"One day," Megatron began, "After all this nonsense fighting ends, newsparks will come into this world, form how they want, grow without fear to live and strive to be whatever they want to be. No castes, no classes. In this world officers respect everyone and uphold justice to their utmost and leaders protect the defenseless, not force them to carry against their will." Megatron moved his hand away, his features hard until he looked into Ratchet's optics. "Can't you see it, Ratchet?"

That world sounded nice, it really did.

Leaning forward, Megatron pressed his forehelm to Ratchet, affectionately rubbing at his chevron while soft scarlet lighting shimmered down Ratchet’s face plates, his own blue sparkling off of Megatron’s metal. "I know you've dreamt it too."

For a moment Ratchet basked in the closeness, the comfort, and the acceptance. Unfortunately, he had to shift away. His look of disapproval was even felt within his field.

"I think we've dreamed differently. I know the cost of that future."

"Then tell me your dreams, let me see them."

When Ratchet felt Megatron tangle his digits between his own and the gentleness of his field he conceded.

"In my world wars are won when both sides can come together and settle their differences through words alone, and peace and respect are the highest held. Change comes only through perseverance with hands clasping hands, not blasters."

Megatron nodded, shifting away but keeping ahold of Ratchet's hands. "And how do you fare in a world like that?"

Ratchet looked at the scrutiny glowing in Megatron's optics. He kept his silence because he knew that at that point, Megatron was not going to accept any other vision. It was much too late for that.

"I've learned long ago that if you want anything in this world you have to fight for it."

Ratchet scoffs. "You never could shake that gladiatorial attitude." He shook his helm. Really, he shouldn't be disappointed, but he was.

Megatron frowns. "It's what kept me online for so long and what will keep the Decepticons online."

There was something, something deep inside. Ratchet at first felt a shadow of it while he sat there speaking to Megatron. He tried ignoring it, assuming it would just vanish, but it wasn't. It was growing to the point Ratchet could feel it breaking into pieces. And each of those sharp ends continued to stab at his spark until he just couldn't take it.

"So then what'll become of the movement, these Decepticons?"

There was a reluctance in Megatron's field, one fighting against acknowledging factors, but he answered, saying, "We will fight for a place in this world. There will be casualties, I know this, they know this, but we understand the cost necessary for the future we seek. But once it arrives there will be peace, peace with no more struggles, no more wars. But those faithful, those most loyal will be rewarded for their sacrifices with this new society.”

Megatron carried on, explaining his ideal system and the occupations he sought to replace and remold once his plans came to fruition, and as he did Ratchet found himself pulling away once more.

"How can you not see it?" There's a look in Ratchet, one of broken fragile material that kept looking at Megatron and breaking over and over again. "You're fighting against a throne only so you can build your own. You say you want to change everything but you'll be no different from them."

That seemed to irk Megatron. Ratchet watched his features shift at the accusation. He felt him pull away and now he was standing, turned from him as if to keep himself and his emotions in line. The moment he turned his helm toward Ratchet the fire in his optics let the medibot understand his upset. " _I_ will be the one to defend the weak, to reward the deserved. To punish the corrupt. To bring justice back to this darkened world." His field flared, and Ratchet felt singed just by sitting so close.

"And where do I fall in your society?" Ratchet's voice was soft, the question perhaps one for himself more than Megatron, but in end it was that question that pushed back that erratic field.

Megatron turned back around. Within a klik the fire in his optics faded and he came closer again, kneeling and taking up Ratchet's hands. Ratchet watched him bring those rouge servos to his lips and mutter against them. The words touched a tender place deep inside Ratchet as they did Megatron.

“My optics search for this impending answer, but lo, do I see a spark, warm and bright.” A kiss overlaid against the flat of Ratchet’s left palm. “Compassion overflowing from its fluctuating rays.” Another kiss against Ratchet’s right hand. “These hands come to me. With them, I can see Cybertron, hued in vibrant golds, springs risen up, cities agleam from the tops of their tiers to their roots, and families; lovers, brothers and sisters, hand in hand, home to home.” A final kiss laid over Ratchet’s knuckle gears. Tender digits rubbed against the red plating as scarlet optics looked back at Ratchet. "And you’ll be beside me," he said, looking at Ratchet as he pressed his hands against his chassis. "To heal the hurt left over."

Too many of those sharp shards embedded into Ratchet's spark. He shook. The hands holding his tightened but Ratchet couldn't be comforted. Not this time.

"What about mine?"

Megatron was quiet for a moment, simply watching the way his mate broke apart. "I know you don't want this, Ratchet, but there is no other way."

"Then I can't stand beside you." It took more strength to pull his hands out of Megatron's grasp than it had to bow before Senator Proteus. And it destroyed Ratchet inside.

Megatron remained in silence, in shock, in devastation. He shook his helm as if he was trying to make sense of it all, as if he was trying to come to terms with the rejection he was experiencing, with what Ratchet was _saying_.

Ratchet had to look away. He sat there, hands in his lap and helm turned. He just wanted to disappear, to cease to exist so he didn't have to do this; to pull away from Megatron, to feel his rising hurt and the sadness overtaking his spark. It was all just so unbearable.

Megatron stood. Ratchet could hear him move. He could hear him pace. He could feel him clenched with dismay

"You refuse to stand beside me but so quickly submitted yourself to the whims of Proteus?"

Ratchet kept his optics averted. "There was no choice in that matter."

When Megatron grabbed his arm, he grabbed his attention. Bright optics blared at the sight of Megatron's livid features. The glare, the sneer, the absolute hatred frightened Ratchet. Was that all for him?

"No choice?" Megatron's other hand hooked into Ratchet's broken chassis, giving him a rough shake. "Is that what you want? How about _I_ leave you no choice?"

The pain that flared from the rough handling wasn't what Ratchet focused on. It was those optics, the ones that were glowing with threat, with danger Ratchet never thought he'd see, not from the one before him. Despite the initial fright and the ache over seeing his endurae morph into this mech, Ratchet shook it all away and dared to glare back.

"Go ahead, force me like you did Polyhex, and Kaon, and Tarn, and Vos. You want to keep me here? Then strap me down, have your way and then lock me up." Ratchet grit his denta, heaving emotion. "It's not something I'm unfamiliar with."

Something flashed across Megatron's face. He let go of Ratchet next.

Letting out a gasp, Ratchet rubs at his chassis, and then downward in a protective motion. He sees Megatron look there.

With all threat and malice suddenly absent, nothing but regret and sadness filtered through the silver mech.

"Would it have been different if you would have carried mine?"

Silence abounds, Ratchet bows his helm. He wondered himself. "I don't know."

The silence leaves them both torn more, and when Megatron shifts he moved to leave. Ratchet's spark seizes, fright of being left behind, locked away, forgotten, race through him to the point he starts forward. Megatron must have felt it because he turns to him before exiting and says, "I'll give you time to think." He motioned to the door. "It's not locked."

Those sad optics turned away from Ratchet so fast that the medibot felt the actual rip inside his spark. He wanted to cry out from the pain of it all, but he couldn’t find his voice just yet. Instead he stood, watching as Megatron turned and left him with the silent hiss of the closing door.

When Ratchet couldn’t sense his field anymore he steps forward. He makes it half way to the door before he stops. There was something that pulled at him, something that urged him to go, to run until he was back inside the circumference of those strong arms. And Ratchet hated having to fight that feeling into remission.

In that moment to himself Ratchet feels those small electromagnetic taps and his hand rubs against his chassis.

"You worried me before." Glancing back at the door Ratchet feels his spirit deflate. "But not as much as him."

. . .

It was amazing Polyhex held out for as long as it did. By the time Sentinel Prime and his mecha arrived at its borders not a single building was spared from the onslaught of damages wrought in by the invading forces. Weary and shaken policebots met them with rising enthusiasm, eagerly conferring every piece of information they could.

Southern and eastern sectors were overrun while the western position teetered with the same fate. Standing at such an outlook one would think the city would be ready for surrender, but it wasn't, not with the anger from its citizens that met Sentinel Prime.

"Primus!" Thunderclash was gapping, scanning his optics over the ruins and devastated populace. "Those bastards did all of this?"

The northern sector that they came into was crowded with fleeing citizens, many of them were ailing 'bots, with dysfunctions and age and lack of maintenance the reasons for their slow exit. The rest were the wounded. Given this observation, the disturbing factor brought in was the notice of absent medical mecha. Not a single ‘bot looked as if they’d seen any sort of repairs for some time.

"Is there no care here?" Orion looked to his fellow policebots, but at the mention their faces shifted with grief.

They shook their helms. "Taken, all of them."

"Taken?" Sentinel Prime pressed close, just as curious while his commanders organized the chaos around them. "What do you mean?"

"The terrorists," another policebot spoke up. His leg was hanging onto knee connectors by wires. His agony was pushed aside to offer respect to the Prime before him, but his features didn't hide much of his discomfort. "They destroyed our railing lines so no one could leave and then they rounded a lot of the citizens up. The medibots they took elsewhere, don't know where."

Orion turned toward Thunderclash. Worry riddled their features.

"What is left of my mecha stationed here?" Sentinel Prime looked around disapprovingly at not spotting a single Guard.

"No one knows, sir," the policebot replied.

With a huff, the Prime turned to his strategists and began advising. In the end he issued ten squadrons to relieve the western sector and promised that once it was secured he would move more mecha closer to the heavier occupied regions.

Thunderclash dropped troops and supplies while Orion Pax marched into the besieged zones. Pharma had remained to help the wounded along with the score of Iaconian medics brought with the Elite Guard, but he continued sending updating inquiries to both mechs of which he forwarded to Jazz who stayed behind to serve in Iacon's communication district.

"Praise the Originals! We have backup!" Orion and the mecha he traveled with met the beleaguered mecha taking fire by the terrorists, or Decepticons as they've been labeling themselves. They were exhausted of supplies and energy, but their gratitude for their arrival persevered.

Orion and the others quickly offered energon, backup charges and generators, along with extra weaponry and ammunition. Captains were relieved and footbots replaced with fresh and energized soldiers. Nearly all of the stalling mecha were sent away in place of Orion’s company, but there were still a few who held onto the offense their city has suffered and so opted to remain even in the conditions they were in.

One such ‘bot Orion was attempting to relieve.

"Support is here, you are hereby ordered to return to the northern sector for medical attention." Orion watched the red mech look at him as if he'd suddenly undergone anamorphia. By the ugly cavity near his spark chamber, it was assumed he'd be enthused to retreat and seek repairs, but in the following motion, the mech simply turned himself back toward the relay ahead and fired, holding his cannon on his good arm to steady his aim.

"I suppose you're wantin' me to scamper off. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I have a score to settle with these bastards."

Orion's optics flickered for a moment before he pressed again. "Sir, you're clearly in need of assistance. Let me take you to the shuttle and—"

"You're not taking me anywhere!" He said, a growl in his tone. He glared at Orion, but most of his hostility was toward the mecha hunkered just across the lines. "You see they thought they could just come into this city and it would fall on its knees like the other ones. Like slag it will. And I want to be here to make sure their afts feel the scorches of our barrels."

Taken aback, but in no way appalled by the mech's dedication, Orion chuckled, shaking his helm. "You're a fine mech. It's a shame Cybertron doesn't have more of you."

The red mech shrugged his better shoulder strut. "That's a mold Primus uses only so often." He snickered back with Orion. "What's your designation, kid?"

"Orion Pax, yours?"

"Ironhide."

Orion scanned the mech over. While he was no certified medibot, even he could provide some assistance to his decrepit state. Reaching forward he laid a hand on his damaged knee. Ironhide glanced toward him and approved with a nod.

As soon as Orion began tightening bolts for better maneuverability Ironhide spoke up saying, "Did you ever manage to find them medics?"

Orion glanced up. "The ones taken?" He shook his helm. "Sentinel Prime's still working on locating them."

Ironhide clicked his glossa against his denta. "They likely took them out of the city by now. Damn." He nodded then, a little ways down the maze of barricades. "If you want to help anyone, cadet, then get that Guard I have packed behind those boards."

Orion stood. A Guard? Even in that sector there'd been no sight of them. Too many assuming they were annihilated.

Moving away, Orion ignored the pounding sounds echoing from the backfire of Ironhide’s cannon and pushed his way through packed obstruction to find the shielded Guard. He was propped on his back, his frame wracked with extreme injuries and dried energon. He was a familiar face, and a Praxian build.

"Prowl!" Orion flung himself at the mech, foregoing the caution along with the severity of his frame. When he caught himself he backed away, but his hands fell on the wounds, and then laid against his smashed helm. "Prowl, can you assess my voice?"

A small nod and optical flickering was answer enough, and honestly, Orion couldn’t fathom how Prowl even managed to make such movement in his condition, but relief flooded Orion's systems just as soon until he seized with the realization that Prowl had been assigned to oversee security of the medical volunteers. Of Ratchet.

"Where's Ratchet?" Orion felt his core heat dangerously at the possible thought that something might have . . . "What happened to him?"

Clearly, Prowl was in no condition to relay any proper message, but he did reach out. Orion caught his hand and held it, squeezed it.

"Alright, it's all alright. I'm gonna get you out of here. Pharma will fix you right up."

Prowl felt so fragile in Orion's arms. The damage he sustained barely left him online. Clearly among the worst he's seen in the sector.

As Orion brought him down, Ironhide turned their way and nodded in recognition before saying, "He tried saving a medibot. Bit off more than he could chew with one of them. I did what I could before I too went down. They took that medic away faster than they laid charges in us. A downright shame, on the account he was carrying."

Carrying? Orion stopped and glared. "You said the Decepticons took him. Did you see where?"

Ironhide patted to his wound and moved his jaw strapping in thought. "It's all a little fuzzy. Was on the cusp of stasis, but if my recollection is accurate, I want to say they took him south." He shook his helm. "They took the rest of 'em for themselves. I don't think you'll even find your friend."

Maybe not, but at least it was a start. A place where Orion could go and push back.

. . .

It hadn't even been a cycle since Megatron's departure when Damus had rushed into the room with an armful of energon cubes and damn near tackled Ratchet out of the berth. The sudden jostle startled the sparkling and Ratchet got immediate worry rubbing against his field. But with Damus there, wrapping himself around him, he couldn't help but smile it all away.

"You're here! You're really here!" Given Damus' ability, he more than most found himself with a constant cleared radius. Too many still refused to touch him or be touched in return. However, it’s been too long since Ratchet’s cared for any of that. "When Deadlock said he spotted you I knew it wasn't a lie!"

Damus unwrapped himself and leaned back, but kept his himself close while Ratchet shook in his bearings. That bright cerulean optic swirled with elicit happiness and it all endeared the medibot.

"Easy, Damus," Ratchet warned as he tilted himself back into an upright sitting position, his hand against his chassis all in subconscious manner. "I can't be handled like that anymore."

As if remembering, Ratchet saw Damus' optic brighten. When he scooted back, his apology was obvious. "That's right. I'm sorry." He was looking down now to where Ratchet kept his hand. "You're really . . .?"

Ratchet nodded. Though shame and regret usually marred his features and field, he was at the point in his carry where his coding only sent out signals of tenderness and nurture. A soft smile curved his lip plates. With a nod, Ratchet said, "They're active right now. Do you want to feel?"

Damus looked hesitant and Ratchet expected a rejection in concerns to the child's existence, but the rustic mech only nodded and leaned closer again. He reached out and pressed a claw against Ratchet's plating, just lightly.

"No, no. Right here." Ratchet took Damus' servo and slid it upward, pressing it between two plates so that he may get the chance to feel some kind of vibration.

They sat there for a few moments in patience and when the small "cling" resounded, the movement tingled through Ratchet's frame and up against Damus' claw. His optic brightened. "I felt it!" He leaned closer, poking. "What's it like, Ratchet?"

Ratchet vented. "Even now, it’s still so new, but oddly enough familiar in a sense. It’s a little nice too, because it’s like I constantly have company; someone who will listen when I feel like wallowing to myself.” He let out a chuckle and then nodded to Damus. “Right now they’re curious about you.” Patting his chassis his smile softened. “I can feel it in their field. If you’re close enough, you may just feel it too.”

Damus nodded, scooting closer now, his hand returned and after another moment he jerked back. “I felt them brush me!”

Ratchet nodded. “I think they like you.”

Damus seemed excited and in the following portal of time the two sat, feeling the life inside Ratchet and reaching out with their fields in curious responses. The excitement of it all might have waned the sparkling because they settled down not too long later.

"What do you think about it?" Damus leaned away this time, his tone dropping, the subject obvious. "About the sparkling."

Ratchet sat in silence, processing. He'd gone over these thoughts before, however he never had thought he would be conveying any of them to the likes of Damus. He never thought he’d get the chance to see him again. "At this point I can only think of it as mine, and mine alone. Their sire is gone, and I have no regrets about that." Ratchet paused, venting again. "But, I have them where they should be." He looked at Damus and reached out to lay his hand on his. "I regret leaving you."

Damus grasped that hand and clung so tightly to him. The mech really had missed him, hadn't he? "Why did you do it, Ratchet?"

"He was going to hurt you, and Megatron, and everyone else I loved. If he was going to hurt anyone, I'd rather it be me." Ratchet inclined his helm, glancing away, glancing down into his thoughts, reflecting on all the choices that's led him there.

"Megatron made it to where he can't hurt you anymore." Damus was patting Ratchet's hand. There was a sense of pride within his field, of approval for what Megatron had done.

Megatron took out Proteus so he couldn't hurt Ratchet anymore only to be the one to hurt him in the end. There was so much tragedy in that.

"Now he's making it to where we'll be safe, where you'll be safe." Damus' enthusiasm was meant to be mirrored, but Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to join in the celebration.

Standing up, Damus picked up the spilled cubes. "Sorry, you're probably low. Here."

Ratchet took the offered energy and enjoyed Damus' company. They spoke about things that Ratchet could tank like the fate of the clinic and the survivors of the bombing. Ratchet was glad to know those hurt that managed to flee Iacon had survived.

"I heard about the arrests for the others," Damus mentioned, crumbling his empty cube. "I can't be sure for everyone, though, there's a list for the missing."

"There were deaths," Ratchet said unfortunately. "But for the ones who survived I can confirm a few like Night Flight, Hydrau, Spiral, and even Barricade. I visited when I could."

Damus nodded. "Damn. It must be miserable in there." He paused a moment before clapping his servos. "But once we push to Iacon we'll free them in a spark pulse." Jumping to his pedes he moved toward the door. "Oh, Ratchet, you should see the medical facilities they have here. Of course we're going to let you head them once the city's secure, and we even brought all of your equipment from Kaon. There's more too. Wait there, I'll bring them in."

Ratchet sat there as Damus darted out of the room trying to take in everything. He felt his spark sink inside him at the notion of rejecting Damus' exuberance because as much as the young mech missed him, so too had Ratchet missed him. So when Damus returned carrying heaping amounts of Ratchet's personal belongings he had been forced to leave and then began spouting plans of rearrangement and settlement it damn near choked Ratchet into stasis.

"Damus." The mech had just sat a few items down in the corner of the suite when he turned attentively to Ratchet.

"Hm?"

Ratchet offered a smile, a small sad one as he shook his helm. "I'm not staying."

Damus stood there processing Ratchet's words. With a flash of his optic he cocked his helm in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ratchet continued to shake his helm. "I'm not staying," he confirmed again.

Damus took another moment before he perked. "Oh? You mean you want to go back to Kaon. Well, if that's what you want. I just thought that since Megatron will be staying here for so—"

"I'm not going back to Kaon either." Ratchet sounded a sigh. "Damus, I just don't belong."

Finally, Damus began understanding the weight of Ratchet’s words because worry rose in the mech's field as he stepped closer. "What do you mean? Of course you do."

"Even after everything I've done?"

Damus' optic flickered in thought. "I mean, even after all that. Why, when Matchbox recognized you and told Megatron he immediately called for someone to patch you up and bring you here. You belong, Ratchet, especially beside Megatron."

Memories of Overlord and the things he said, the things he tried to do. It didn't bode well, nor did Megatron's shifting visions.

Damus reached out and laid a claw on Ratchet's folded hands. Ratchet looked at him then. "There's no other place I want you than here, Ratchet. And so do so many others."

Ratchet smiled at Damus' open spark and honesty. He cherished him just as much. Glancing down at the claw on his hands made the medibot remember something.

"Damus can you get something for me?"

Ratchet directed the mech to find the small black case he was sure he left at the clinic. After all, if his items were said to have been shipped over then it would likely be among the pieces transported. Low and behold it was one of the items brought into the city in hopes that Ratchet would find a sect to settle down in.

Obediently, Damus handed the article over to Ratchet, but as soon as it was in Ratchet's possession he gifted it back to Damus.

"They should have been done a long time ago, but I was so easily distracted with the patients and Megatron that . . ." Ratchet chuckled, missing those days. His smile poured longing for a moment before fading into an encouraging one. He nodded. "Well, they're yours."

When Damus opened the case he froze. Ratchet could feel the shock in his field. There was even disbelief in that optic as it peered at Ratchet for answers, for validation. Ratchet nodded and motioned for him to accept it all.

Shaking his helm, Damus continued to stare into the case. "You made these . . . for me?" He looked at Ratchet then, optic bright, swirling heightened emotions.

Ratchet nodded. "They're not much, but they're an improvement to what you have now."

He watched Damus look back down. He watched as his claws came up over and lightly touched the items inside. He could sense his happiness, and the levels felt in his field were some of the highest Ratchet has ever had the privilege of experiencing.

When that awestruck optic turned away and looked back to Ratchet, once more the medibot found himself tackled with a constricting embrace. The collision nearly tumbled him over, but Ratchet leaned back into the field wrapping around his own.

"Now you have to stay," Damus pitched as his helm rubbed Ratchet's helm. With one last squeeze he relinquished his hold just to lean back a portion, servos still touching. "You have to stay and, and show me how to attach them, and, and, and you have to make more for the others. There are others, Ratchet. Here. Others that need you just as much as I do."

"Damus." Ratchet's tone was balanced, even, always a call for attentiveness. "I'm programed to serve and repair. I'm satisfied in that. And I know that for some time you shared with me in the joys of completing such programming, but, do you think that I will still be able to fulfill those prerogatives here?" Ratchet was shaking his helm. "No, this movement—the Decepticons—they don't want to repair, they want to rip apart. Is that what you want, Damus? For yourself and for me?"

Damus sat there beside Ratchet in process. There was a rising hope that when Ratchet left he'd be able to take the young mech with him. Already Ratchet worried more over his future than his own. But he wouldn't take him unwillingly, and by these interactions, Ratchet began to wonder how deep Damus had attached himself to Megatron's new vision.

The low shudder of the building pulled both mechs away from the subject at hand and turned their attention toward what had been felt. Ratchet's familiarity with the tremor alerted him to the likely situation; they were under attack.

Damus was to his pedes the moment the second shudder phased through the foundation.

For a moment, Ratchet believed the 'bot was going to dash out of the room and seek out the cause of the disturbance on his own, but he skidded to a stop before moving past the doorway. Turning Damus held out his servo and motioned for him.

"Come on, it's safer further in."

Ratchet hesitated until another shudder shook him to his pedes and spurred him to follow Damus. He led him deeper into the building and as they moved Ratchet passed many a mech running to and fro carting supplies, weapons, and sounding off messages to their peers. The unruly system of it all came to a head where Damus led him.

They were in some sort of a hub, with monitors setup all around, and mecha occupying observational seats. Many more came in and out of passageways with encryptions and sounding coordinates. In the center of it all was a command table where a holograph of the city resided, sectors marked in red alerted the mecha surrounding it of which parts were still in conflict, and there stood Megatron's large frame, huddled with the mass of his most effective mecha, many faces Ratchet recognized.

"Stay here," Damus said with a pat while he moved to slide into the planning relay.

Ratchet watched as Megatron glanced over toward Damus as soon as the mech came and stood near. Searching scarlet optics turned until they met Ratchet. There was a moment of stillness, one where Ratchet felt his spark fluctuate at the sensation of simply being looked at—being acknowledged—but then it dissipated the moment Megatron turned his attention back to the board.

From where he stood, Ratchet couldn't pick up what they were saying. Not that he couldn't guess. But standing there in a room full of mecha both familiar and not made him uncomfortable and that discomfort was very much noticed by his offspring.

 _I'm fine_ , Ratchet assured the small curious taps against his field. _We're fine_. The assurance didn't at all loosen the anxiety in his field, especially when optics stared and fields brushed in a mix of comradery and hostility. Even with Megatron present, Ratchet found no comfort.

"Ratchet!"

Turning, Ratchet watched both Rumble and Frenzy hop down from one of the observational seats, on which Soundwave just so happened to be occupying. The dark mech turned as the minibots dashed over toward him, and he kept his silent stare on the medic as their interaction unfolded.

"It's so good to have you back, doc!" Rumble and Frenzy were all grins even as the subtle tremors rattled the structure around.

Ratchet offered them a smile. "I'm glad to see the both of you well-kept and out of trouble."

Rumble snickered, jabbing his brother with his elbow rotator. "Not for long." He then motioned toward the monitors. "You heard? Prime's here. He's the bastard responsible for all the bass going on."

Ratchet looked toward the monitors and noticed the familiar symbol on the mecha bombarding the captured areas. Elite Guard.

"And how long do you plan to hold out?" Ratchet looked to Soundwave before looking back down at the minibots. He looked for the things that made them waver, and the things that made them resolve. He saw more confidence in this subjected endeavor than anything else in them.

Rumble proceeded to lay his fist in his servo, a smile most becoming of him tilting his features. "As long as it takes to tell those glitch heads we ain't movin'."

Expected from the two, but Ratchet still couldn't stop his spark from sinking further away.

"There's going to be a lot of damage." Ratchet knew that there would be not only for the attacking forces, but for any future chance of recompense.

"Of course," Frenzy said. "But it won't all be that bad now that you're here."

Even in their bravado, but Ratchet didn't return their rubbing fields with the same response. Nor did he verbally voice his countering opinion because he knew there was no one in that room that would listen. Not anymore.

"Sir! Blackout and his mecha just got pushed back fifty marks!"

The confirming shout alerted Megatron and the others. Ratchet could see the surprise morph into anger, and when Megatron banged his fist onto the table the room lurched with his disapproval. "Can he do nothing right?!" He turned then, nodding to Lugnut. "Go join Blitzwing and his mecha. They should be closest." His optics then moved toward the likes of Soundwave. "Soundwave, get those blasted seekers on the line. There needs to be order on ground and sky or else we'll waste away doing anything in this damn city."

With those orders Megatron and his posse began to move. Their pace lead them out of the room quickly, but it gave Megatron enough time to falter a moment, pausing ever so slightly as he passed by Ratchet. Ratchet—his conjunx—looked at him, followed him with pleading optics. But just as Ratchet resisted, so too did Megatron and he pushed away to move into the hall.

Ratchet felt the entire process of his frame crumbling, but he wrapped himself in what perseverance he could and forced himself to move. Turning on his bearings he darted after them. It didn't take him long to catch up, and there was no struggle to slip through the larger mecha to reach out and grab a hold of Megatron's hand.

That stopped him.

Those optics that looked at him were almost unrecognizable. The mech looking at him was Megatron, but this Megatron wasn't the writer or the debater or even the revolutionist. This Megatron was the leader of the Decepticons.

Clinging, Ratchet tried so hard to fight against that fact, so he pushed past field and touch and delved into their connected sparks. _Please. Please, please, don't go_.

There were murmurs surrounding them by the mecha observing the quiet interaction, full of a mixture of curiosity and irritation. He could feel them. Ratchet could sense which fields were pushing at him to bar and which were giving him space and time out of reverence to his relationship with their leader. Ratchet wasn’t moved by anyone, not when he was so focused on Megatron, so ready to hear that voice of his say what he pleaded he’d hear, what he needed to hear.

Shifting, Megatron laid his hand on Ratchet's clenched grasp and pulled him off. He watched then as strong hands squeezed, as if to motion comfort. Then Megatron let go and turned and left.

The ache that struck Ratchet nearly offlined him. For a moment, Ratchet wasn't even certain he was still functional. It was the subtle pats from a concerned sparkling that pulled him back into this horrid reality.

Optics flickered and as he turned, Ratchet's frame swayed. It was good that Damus was nearby because just as soon as he teetered over the mech came rushing to his side.

"I got you, I got you," he promised as he helped Ratchet toward a bench. Before Ratchet even leaned over to take a seat he pulled back, slapping Damus' arms away.

"No, I can't." Helm shook while his very will tried to keep his frame functioning. "I have to go, I have to . . ."

Ratchet swung himself around and pushed toward the halls, toward where the exit was. He had to get out. He couldn't stay. He just needed to leave.

"Ratchet, where're ya goin'?" That was Rumble's voice and no doubt his frame that Ratchet passed by in his hurry to leave.

There were more calls, more mechs reaching out to him, but Ratchet didn't stop. He didn't stop until someone took hold of him and twisted him around right before he left the building entirely. It was Damus.

"What are you doing?" Damus' optic was bright with worry and his field clenched in confusion. "You can't go out there, it's too dangerous."

"It's just as dangerous if I stay here," Ratchet said, pulling his arm away.

Damus stood for a moment in quiet comprehension. His optic flickered as his field shifted under the gravity of the situations presenting themselves. Even without proper facial structure, Ratchet could tell when the mech was upset.

"So you're . . . you're _leaving_?"

It would have been easier if Damus hadn't chased him down.

"I can't stay," Ratchet said. "There's just no place for me here."

"Of course there is!" Damus moved until he was reaching out and touching Ratchet, grasping him, clinging onto him. "I-It's with me in, in the clinics and we'll help our friends, our comrades, our . . . What about Megatron? Are you just going to leave _him_?"

Ratchet felt that sharpness in his chassis again. "Take a look around.” He motioned to the damages, the sounds, the obvious bombardment. “I’m certainly the last priority on his processor.”

He turned and tried to leave again. He moved out the door, out of the building. He only made a few paces out when he heard Damus whine and the way it shot through him nearly made the medibot collapse.

"Don't leave!"

And he struggled. Ratchet struggled so damn hard not to turn around. It was a battle he lost and the ache he was already drowning in met Damus' as the young mech stood there in the doorway, claws clenched and frame shaking with grief.

"Please, Ratchet." He was sobbing. "Please don't leave me!"

Ratchet didn't want to. If only he could take him with him.

"Come with me." Damus looked at him through his distraught. There was a moment of surprise, surprise that tumbled into confused distraught. Ratchet beckoned again. "Damus."

There was no reply, at least none verbally. Damus stood with his field flustered and contorted. He looked like he wanted to be with Ratchet, but he struggled to take that first step.

Ratchet would have waited. Oh, he would have waited an eternity for that decision hadn’t the circumstances pressed down so fast and hard, like the charges being dropped overhelm in a line of successful barrages. They struck the building just to the right, shaking his and Damus’ frames, but Ratchet stared, and waited until he watched Damus take frightening steps back. Whether it was a form of response to Ratchet’s proposal or just a reaction to the mayhem raining down around them, there was no more time to find out.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t even time to mourn everything he had just lost. “Goodbye, Damus.” Ratchet left with that, turning and transforming to drive away.

Ratchet’s previous attempts to leave Polyhex had ended in failure, and this account began turning into a similar fate. With the air raids and shifting lines, it was hard for the medibot to find a nonviolent route of escape. Of course he expected no less.

He wasn’t the only one trying to leave the city either; there were citizens, ones who hadn’t made it out during the evacuations or mecha who were captured in their flight by encroaching enemy forces. Ratchet ran into so many frightened sparks and frantic optics torn between the opportunity to flee in the mayhem or huddle in mass and try and protect themselves from the retaliating assault. There were few who took a hold of the chance to escape, and Ratchet was one of them.

During the initial invasion the offending forces, the Decepticons, were hard-pressed to allow any citizen through the cracks of their divisions, but now, as the Elite Guard laid charges into the citied structures these over-takers shifted their priorities away from penning in the scattering crowds toward returning their own firepower. It was one of the reasons Ratchet was able to make it to the bounds so fast.

Having come as far as he had didn’t necessarily mean Ratchet’s struggle to escape the madness was over. There was destruction everywhere. Border stations were crumbled messes, railings were ripped apart, and what once were shops and lodges and areas of work were now wasted into nothing but structural frames.

Despite the destruction, it was not an empty field by far. Squadrons dotted the areas and it was these groups that Ratchet did his best to avoid, though the crossfire and overhelm charges were the highest priorities Ratchet attempted to keep his attention on.

Uneven roads and toppled sidings inevitably forced Ratchet to transform and proceed the rest of the way bipedal. This process dragged out his timing and slowed his progression from distancing himself from the city, but it helped him avoid moving forces, ones that spilled out of every crevice and block. They were armed, and often times carted larger artillery. It disturbed Ratchet in wondering where they had possibly acquired such arms, and the moment defining Megatron had approved of such measures. The kind of mainframe he was in hurt to dwell on, and so Ratchet pressed on, trying to leave it all behind in the city.

The direction Ratchet was heading into wasn’t one any sane mech wanted to venture toward. Fire and bombings rattled in the distance, and sometimes they were received closer. But the other side was there, and it was with them that Ratchet knew he had to push toward.

Pausing, Ratchet pushed himself against a partial fallen archway. An aerial flew overhelm and dropped a line of successful charges. After the ringing distortion faded from his audials, Ratchet could hear the cries of wounded and screams of the horrified.

Another flock flew over and once again dropped their holdings. This drop was closer and it shook the very structure Ratchet was pressed against. Pressing servos to his helm, Ratchet tried to will away the whirling sounds, but after it was over silence dominated and it was then that Ratchet realized how much more frightening it was than the cries from before.

Spark pulsing and systems ramped with quickened currents made the medibot hyperaware of everything, even the disturbing notions. Stepping away, Ratchet moved closer to the smoke. Inside its blanketing plume, Ratchet’s optics took in visage of the carnage.

Frames of all makes and models lay strewn about, many in pieces. There wasn’t a spark left. Each frame was discolored, extinguished of any sign of life.

Stumbling back a few steps, Ratchet tried to handle the scene before him but his tank churned and his core tempted to dangerous levels. Is this what Megatron wanted? Is this what he was now encouraging? Primus, these were young models, they should have lived millennia more, but they’re dea . . . they’re . . .

Ratchet wouldn’t let his weak knee rotators collide. He had to keep moving. Tremors from further strikes vibrated through his pedes, the ones he forced to move to find shelter, to find a friendly face.

His distress over the calamity lain out before him and the absolute uselessness he was in it all turned a smaller presence to worry. The little taps against his field was ignored and continued to be unanswered until the protoform became quiet.

Dunking out of sight as Ratchet maneuvered around a grouping of wounded. There were easily twelve of them, each sporting some kind of injury. Those with the least amount of damage were knelt over their comrades, trying to help. Ratchet felt his programing tug at his mobile systems, but he overrode it to stay put, to stay hidden.

These mecha had made their choice. They understood just what could become of them. This was not Ratchet’s to help mend just so they could go out racing back into the same damning fire.

Ignoring his medical programing was rough, but Ratchet had to persevere if he was ever going to escape the perimeters of the Decepticons. The problem was that the closer he came toward the frontlines the more his resolve broke down. Seeing screaming ‘bots, extinguishing before their companions and Ratchet when some of these wounds were easily repairable.

When Ratchet stumbled upon a lone mech, his frontal plating shattered from the shockwave of a nearby charge, who lay moaning on the ground, clawing at the terrain to try and pull himself away from further injury, his resolve broke. Immediate scans ran down the poor ‘bot’s frame and from there Ratchet isolated the source of his leakage and rising pain.

He was alone, just as much as Ratchet was, and in an escalating scene like that around, Ratchet realized he’d be just as afraid if he lay helpless like that. So he ran toward him and laid his hands on him.

The moment Ratchet's hands were on the mech, the ailing 'bot startled. Optics bright, mouth open, and body twisted. There was fright at first in the light of those violet panels. Along with that the mech had reached up and took hold of Ratchet's arms, pushing, struggling to get him away.

"Easy, easy, I'm a medibot. I'm here to help." Ratchet continued, cursing himself for doing this; because there were charges erupting nearby, because this 'bot made his choice to set himself apart and fight against Prime, because Ratchet was haphazardly putting himself in harm's way despite his condition but didn't seem to care in that moment.

"Nnh, ughn! It hurts!" At least Ratchet knew the mech was vocal capable.

Pushing plating aside, Ratchet began shutting down sensory nodes. One by one until the roughest sector of his frame was completely immobile. Not that he already wasn't.

Worried optics flickered down at the sensation, but Ratchet offered a comforting smile. "What's your designation?"

The mech continued to watch him as the medic pulled at plating and tore at wiring, snipping and searing. "J-Jumpkick."

"Where are you from?" Ratchet tried to keep his frown to himself. The damage was severe.

"Nyon, mh!" Even with major functionality low, the mech's arms moved, and when they did they continued to grasp at Ratchet. Some sensory receptors must have been dislodged near his backing, but Ratchet didn't have time to check them.

Complete frontal components were fried. Ratchet would need replacements or else the young mech wouldn't function for much longer. There was no time to wander back into the city to find the needed parts so Ratchet began picking away at salvageable correlating systems, amputating unnecessary sections just to transfer the portions to assist the most damaged parts. It'd be temporary, but at least he'd still be online.

"All the way from Nyon. A little far from home, huh?" Ratchet couldn't tell if the mech was nodding or just shaking from his loss of bearings.

"W-What about you-u, sir?"

Ratchet only nodded. The smile he offered was short, but sincere while an energon coated servo patted the young one's helm. "I'm a ways off from my home too."

Snapping a few circuitry connectors together, Ratchet was relieved to see a correct power flow. He nodded to the mech then, saying—

"I'm going to reconnect your sensories. It'll hurt, but at least you still have the option to feel it."

The mech nodded and when Ratchet found his servo grasping his, he clenched him back. Within the next klick Ratchet rebooted his systems. His frame twitched and he gasped from the pain, but he functioned.

"There we go. On your pedes." Ratchet hauled the mech, leaning him against himself for support and wound his arm around his shoulder struts. "Now, where are your friends?"

The mech jutted his chin in the needed direction and with as much care as possible in the atmosphere they were in, Ratchet moved them both. Luckily, they hadn't been far from backup and just as a group of four came jogging their way, the sight of a fellow supporter turned their alarmed weaponry away from the unknown medibot.

"Jumpkick!"

There were two that were familiar enough with the mech to rush toward him and help him off of Ratchet.

"Take it easy. His command and vital reading units are crashing. He'll need proper repairs back in the city," Ratchet bid.

Worried optics turned away from the wounded as he was ushered into the fields of his compatriots and looked at Ratchet with wariness.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Weapons weren't raised and poised but Ratchet could certainly feel their rising hostility.

Raising his servos, Ratchet surrendered any agitation. "Just a simple medibot trying to help." He had to get out of there or there was a high risk he'd be carted away like the rest of the medics taken. And he couldn't let that happen, not after how far he's already come.

There were whispers, frequencies low as they conversed with each other about Ratchet's fate. When they looked at him their scrutiny hadn't changed, but a decision had been made.

"Then you're coming with us." One reached out and took Ratchet's arm. Ratchet had no choice but to let him.

He was taken a few paces back into the territory he was trying to leave. There Ratchet was put into a dug out where mecha bearing that damn symbol were huddled, mostly around the wounded. Their optics held a mix of fright and coldness in them, but as they scanned over Ratchet's chevron and colors their fields picked up a little.

"Over there," the mecha pushed Ratchet. "They need repairs."

As soon as he was let go those same 'bots left the encampment, no doubt marching back out to meet the Elite Guard. Damn.

Looking over towards where Jumpkick was set down, Ratchet then looked at the wounded. Two were offline and the rest dysfunctional. Ratchet wondered if the other two could have been saved had someone . . .

No. He was there and he needed to help.

Ratchet immediately got to work. The injured, though shaken from the trauma wrought upon them, were more than willing to comply. Unfortunately, Ratchet's tools were limited. Most of the mecha needed a proper facility.

A charge landed a few paces away. Ratchet watched the 'bots flinch in reaction. There were screams of pain off in the distance, pops of cartridges as well as blasts of phasors. It frightened Ratchet just as much as the others and yet they persisted because they believed it all was worth fighting for, worth _dying_ for.

Another blast shot terrain up and collapsed a barricade a few mechs were lodged behind. More cries of pain resounded, more wounds appeared. Shouts from the hunkered mecha firing from their positions spurred Ratchet’s assumption that the opposition were approaching. In this frantic atmosphere, even the wounded began grasping for their blasters.

"Easy now." Ratchet took the weapon away from his squirming patient. "You're in no condition for that." He then bent away some plates to pull at the shattered gears. "Not yet anyway."

The proximity of the fire inevitably attracted further forces. Ratchet watched them come into the barricaded region with cannons and blasters swinging. They were crude, reckless, and many that jumped over the ramifications never returned even as further fire flew overhelm.

There were too many wounded, too many teetering close to extinguishing. Ratchet didn’t have powerful or the right tools to sustain the ailing and it frustrated him that he just couldn't _leave_. This unending spiral never seemed to show any sign of an ending.

Ratchet was servo deep in a blown chassis when the first notification popped up across his visual display.

Intake power conversion: disabled.

Molecular core regulative system: disabled.

Systematic collective compartment: disabled.

Emersion: processing.

Ratchet paused. Every downing system made the tips of his digits tingle. It pulled his processor away from connecting a thermo calibrator and a fusion extender toward his own dysfunctional systems.

Immediately he began running troubleshooting algorithms. All of which returned to the same issue.

Emersion: 4%

Ratchet's optics flickered. He leaned back, placing a hand over his chassis. Emersion?

If there was one thing his race was it was meticulous, even at the earliest stages. Sparklings were sparked and birthed all within a set period. They never came late, nor early. When the growth process was fulfilled within the usual time capsule, they emerged. The only other reason for an early emergence was malformation.

Something was wrong.

Quickly pulling out his internal scan functionalities, Ratchet began the analysis while also trying to reach out to the little one. There was no response, and the assessment returned void of error or abnormalities. None of the results helped dissipate Ratchet's worry.

Emersion: 10%

Another charge blew debris over him and the growing mass of injured. By now, the explosions were taking out the terrain closest to them. Retreat was eminent.

"Get them up!" 'Bots raced toward the injured, hurriedly pulling them to their pedes or hoisting them into functioning arms. Even Ratchet had been pushed to grab a hold of one as they pressured the entire section to move back.

Emersion: 26%

Primus! This was really happening!

Ratchet gasped when the barely audible hiss whirled in his audios. With a glance down he noticed shifting plates as his chassis readied to accommodate the form signaling its readiness to pass out of it.

Trying as he could to override the process, dilation carried on as programmed.

Emersion: 32%

"Doctor?" The mech Ratchet was assisting pressed his hand to his torso, and when he brought it back Ratchet scanned the substance coating his palm. Eneramniotic gestational fluid. His chamber already ruptured.

Pulling away, Ratchet slung the injured onto someone else. As soon as he turned and darted away, his retreating presence was called out. There were shouts, cries, most filled with warning than threat. No one chased after him, of course they didn’t. No one wanted to follow him into the rain of fire he was running into.

Emersion: 55%

"Not now!" Ratchet gasped as he dodged the heavier damaged patches of terrain. Hands held his chassis, pulling at the shifting plating to try and prolong the birthing, but as the lubricant dribbled down, Ratchet found it increasingly difficult to keep a firm grip on it.

There was a shock blast from a nearby charge that shattered a spire. It knocked Ratchet over as well, his frame nearly crushed by the collapsing structure. For a moment he laid there, optics bright and vision rotating from the sight of smoke and embers and mecha flying in the sky, ready to rush around to ignite the area again.

Ratchet couldn’t let his offspring come into the world in this field. He just couldn’t.

Heaving himself back up, Ratchet’s intent to run and find a sanctuary weighed his resolve even as optical paneling dotted, patches showing damage from the previous tumble.

Emersion: 61%

Correcting his optical balancers would have to wait. Ratchet _needed_ to find shelter.

Stumbling around, another quake had Ratchet tripping into a crater. The lip collapsed just as Ratchet took the dive and from there he struggled to get the mess off of him.

A larger slab of terrain had settled on his torso and the energy Ratchet had to deplete to lift it off of his frame was more than he needed to release. After finally pushing himself free he checked his levels and felt his core cool.

Hydraulic Tension Levels: Mid-High

Core System Reserves: 43%

Receptacle Fusion Converter Charge: 27%

And then finally—

Emersion: 84%

Getting out of that crater used up further energy, energy necessary to carry himself through the birthing process, but Ratchet knew he couldn't stay. He refused to remain in that ditch and let his offspring topple into a sight of surrounding scorched terrain and shattered structures. As crazy as it was he opted to try to find a way to get to the opposing lines.

Emersion: 90%

At this point, it was impossible to transform. Even if Ratchet could, his tanks were so low that it wouldn't make much of a difference. Besides, the likelihood of him getting struck by crossfire or even dropped charges was extremely high. This percentage frightened Ratchet to the point it slowed his movement and made him cling to the structures still standing for support.

Emersion: 94%

Ratchet let out a cry when his lower chassis slipped open. Fluids leaked down and compartments shifted aside. Even with previous sustained damage, Ratchet could feel his body pulling at jammed sections to ensure a clear canal.

Emersion: 96%

Ratchet felt his knees buckle. He caught himself against a tower, leaning as he vented, as his cooling fans whirled, as warnings flashed across his display even though the major message read:

Emersion: 100%

What naturalizing programs couldn’t shift aside for the oncoming, the form moving out of him pushed against. Ratchet winced at the pressure, but all too soon it ended once the frame slipped out of him. Fluid coated hands managed to catch the sparkling before it hit the ground and despite the constant gush of gestational fluid, Ratchet continued to hold the sparkling close, and there it stayed, cradled, wiggling.

Shuddering, Ratchet’s form slid down and it was there he stayed, leant against the decrepit tower as the ground quaked around him and a small frame wiggled against his torso. Now that the pressing notification had faded away, the other concerning warnings began clouding Ratchet’s glitching display. There were just too many of them, and Ratchet was so very exhausted.

Optics flickered, but his arms remained strong in their task to hold and protect. He remembered the pitching cries more than the bombarding explosions in the background. Ratchet remembered placing sticky digits against a small helm, trying to muffle young audio receptors from the crashing noise around them. He also remembered looking down to see his child for the first time, but by that time he was fading into depleted reserves and once he had, his entire form slid down in hopes to restore and reboot.

. . .

Orion Pax had killed his first mech. After standing back for the completion of the aerial barrage he and his forces moved into the area. Most of the opposing mecha had been hit by the dropped charges, but for those that survived they fought back.

Even wounded and barely functioning, these mecha shifted and sought to deliver any damage they could. One such had his arm blown off and the entire right side of his helm collapsed, but he turned and aimed and shot at the mech standing next to Orion. In retaliation, Orion twisted and shot his chassis out. The ‘bot extinguished before him, his frame twitching as other members of Orion’s force moved close to ensure he was offline.

The soldier shot was functioning, but his injury entailed a callback. Orion bid his regrets and farewell and then dealt with the turmoil coiling inside him over what had been decided as necessary for this. He’d come to help and now he was needed to kill. They all were.

“It’s never easy.” Orion looked toward an older mech, a Guard. His designation as Orion recalled was Kup. “Don’t expect it to be.” There was sternness in his vocals and disapproval for the scenery around them, but his optics—though eons of experience shined through them—held a sense of compassion in them, one that Orion hoped to carry should this struggle for peace continue for longer than it should.

Orion nodded, understanding. But, still . . . “I’m not a soldier.”

Kup stood, watching Orion, looking into him. “No one ever is in the beginning.” He nodded toward the dead. “They certainly weren’t, but there they are, and here we are. This is just a battle, it doesn’t look like it’ll be the last.”

A shame. An absolute damn shame. Orion had been expectant, enthused in the beginning, hoping for greater things, for better ends than _this_.

Why? Why did it all have to come to this?

“Do you think . . .” Orion wondered if things had been different, far different. “Do you think if things were different, all of this wouldn’t have happened?”

“Hard to say, kid.” Kup sounded a sigh, shaking his helm. “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s all here, and the right question is what we’ll do now that it _is_ here.”

Orion nodded, falling into silence while they pressed on, searching for survivors. Those who did still cling to life and didn’t respond with violence were arrested and shipped off to the holding units. They were pressing closer to the city, but the pace was aggravatingly terrorizing Orion inside because as each cycle passed he felt his failure weighing him down knowing, just _knowing_ that Ratchet was likely gone. Gone.

“We’re coming up on another field of corpses,” Kup called out. “Make sure they’re all just that before carelessly walking over them. We know what happened before.”

Caution heightened and frames were prodded and turned over to ensure offlinement. The passing air raid ensured no survivors in this region. A shame, really.

Scanning the surroundings, just the absolute devastation the city bounds had taken was enough to churn a mech’s tank. The thought of these Decepticons doing this to other cities burned opposition and ignited their wills to fight. Yet it was Orion that remembered much of the destruction came from them just as much in their fight to retake Polyhex: the city caught in the middle of it all.

Pausing, Orion noticed a slouched frame near a broken tower. From the dust and debris it was almost overlooked hadn’t his sensors picked up the faint signature of a tempt reading. Someone was still online.

Approaching with just as much caution, Orion kept his blaster in a tight grip. When he was close enough to recognize the field, shaking hands nearly dropped the weapon in his hurry closer.

“Ratchet!” Orion fell to his knees, hands immediately on the mech who laid facedown covered in debris. The coat of ash faded the usual white and red paint, and some of the rubble strewn about pinned the medic down. This area had been subject to numerous bombings and, Primus, Ratchet had been in the thick of it!

Moving the larger pieces away, Orion took hold of his friend and twisted him around. Immediately he scented pungent fluids, feeling it against his own servos that ran down the mech’s chassis. Panic irritated Orion’s core instantaneously but it came to a sudden halt when his bright optics fell upon a small mass clutched just underside.

Covered in the same grime and ash was an upset face, one rubbing whimpering lips against Ratchet’s hanging plating. Amber optics flickered toward Orion before the mechling let out another whimper and hid himself in the confines of his carrier.

“Pax! What do you have?” Kup and a few others came jogging up and once they looked at the two, their mouths parted in shuddering surprise. “Primus, get a lift in here immediately!”

Communications were opened and signals sent while Orion shook his fright and worry and fear to try and calm the startled sparkling enough to let him shift Ratchet into his arms. “Ratchet, Ratchet.” Orion shook gently, but pushed firmly with his field hoping the mech would online or at least react to him.

Optics were dim and his frame limp. Orion felt his spark seize in the panic he’d been trying to keep away from himself, his comrades, and the little one.

“Nnm.” Small sounds passed out of Ratchet’s numb lips. Orion felt the medibot shake his helm, ever so slightly.

“Ratchet?” From the pitches in Orion’s vocals to the tender way he brushed down the medic’s frame, those closest could tell of their familiarity and intimacy.

There was even slight optical flickering. “Nm, nuh, mm Meg . . . a . . . tron . . .”

Assumptive optics glared, but Orion only clung to Ratchet, even being given leave to carry the medic away onto the lift and journey back to the operative base. It was there, just as soon as Orion laid Ratchet onto a cart that Pharma had rushed out with other medibots.

“Ratchet!” Pharma immediately noticed the evidential residue and while medical scans ran through battered systems, his optics fell on the being still clutched within the stasis mech’s arms.

“Pharma, he . . .” Orion looked at the clinging sparkling, the one still rubbing his face against his carrier’s plating as if trying to hide away from the unfamiliar mecha staring at him.

Pharma didn’t say much. Instead he looked at Orion and shook his helm. “Take the sparkling away.”

Orion looked surprised and hesitated. “But that would—”

“I need to examine him and the child needs checked as well. It can’t be done as they are now,” Pharma pressed.

While understanding, Orion continued to hesitate. He looked at the little one, saw how he trembled, how tightly he clung. He was frightened. He didn’t want to frighten him more by pulling him away from his carrier.

It seemed Orion’s inability to act irked Pharma who let out a sound and leaned forward, prying the sparkling away and then nodding toward the staff. “Cart him into the operational center and give him four thousand amps of PSE. I’ll be in shortly.”

The moment the mechling was wrenched away from Ratchet he squealed and wriggled. Pharma just held him like he hadn’t a care in the world, but before Orion could spout any type of protest the medibot gave him a look and then marched off with the writhing child. For a moment Orion stared until his spark pulled his concern back toward Ratchet, and then he realized that all he could do was stand there in absolute worry.

. . .

Taking Polyhex had been nearly as easy as the likes of Tarn or Vos, but keeping it was something else entirely. There was to be expected resistance or even excursions, however, Sentinel Prime and his Guard was not at all foreseen in the lay of Polyhex’s siege and to say the Decepticons were underprepared was an absolute lie. They were prepared, but taken in their surprise by the bold move of the supposedly paranoid Prime.

While Megatron took pride in the resilience of his mecha, he did not approve of the rising number of losses in the name of keeping the city, especially one that continued to refuse absolute submission and assistance. And so in the end, Megatron ordered a retreat and promised to live to fight another day.

Megatron was a part of the heavy force responsible for covering the moving ‘bots who carted their supplies toward transports. He was also there to oversee that supporters were helped away from the city with their belongings and relocated properly. In the push to evacuate he came back toward his designated chambers to ensure everything had been cleared.

There, in the room, sitting on the berth was Damus. In his claws was a case, the one Ratchet had secured his personal project in. He was alone.

Optics glanced around the room. He knew. Megatron had known, but there had been something there, something that pulled him quicker down the hall just in the hopes to see if he would still be . . .

“He’s gone.”

Damus was nodding. He looked hurt. Megatron could feel it.

Megatron should have known better. He should have known he couldn’t hold onto him. Perhaps he was never meant to. Primus, did it hurt.

Keeping those aches and pains to himself, Megatron turned. The sight of the room was an optic sore. “We’re evacuating the city. Take what you need and be out of here within a cycle.” He shifted only to push toward the young mech. “A cycle, Damus.”

With that Megatron left, he left just in time to feel Damus’ field spread in upset grief as the mech twisted and threw the case against the nearest wall. Even his angered shout echoed down the hall. After that Damus let go of Ratchet as well and clung to Megatron instead.

. . .

Optical visage came online slowly. The shapes were blurry, unfocused, and by the time focus dilated and corrected, Ratchet was beginning to notice other lagging features. He might have paid attention to them hadn’t the rush of recollection suddenly disturbed him forward.

A wave of frantic panic pulsed through him, and the immediate scans that rang out following concluded there was a medibot in the room with him. Pharma.

Turning his helm, Ratchet looked at the mech. There was relief in his optics and a soft smile on his lip plates. He came closer and set his hand over Ratchet’s.

“I’m so glad you’re online.”

Ratchet smiled at the way his field rubbed affectionately against his own. For a moment it comforted him.

“We got the city back.” Ratchet shifted, looking at Pharma with slowing recognition. Pharma only smiled at the face he made and nodded. “Polyhex is now Decepticon free. It’s been confirmed they evacuated seven cycles ago.”

“Seven . . .” Ratchet shifted back into his reclined berth, optics staring up at the ceiling, falling into his processor.

“I heard Megatron made it out with the bulk of them.” Ratchet turned his optics back toward Pharma. Just the mention made the aerial’s face drop. He was trying to hide the obvious disdain out of respect, but it was fine, Pharma had every right to hold resentment for the mech.

Ratchet nodded. There was a relief that he kept to himself, the rest he settled with his friend as they sat there in silence. When his idle hands began to move just for movement’s sake they passed over his chassis plating, minor dents displaced remnants of heavier damage and cleaned coating brought Ratchet back to the memory of dripping fluids and ash and ember. He looked back at Pharma again.

“The . . . the sparkling?”

Ratchet watched Pharma’s face shift again. His form even straightened into a professional manner. “Is being tended to. You needn’t worry, he’s not your problem any longer. You did your part.”

Ratchet found himself nodding. After all, Pharma was right. And honestly, Pharma was just doing what Ratchet had asked of him deca-cycles ago.

Still, it felt strange; being empty, searching and finding no form, not feeling that weight he’s come to familiarize himself with or that tapping field he’d gotten to know so well. Looking down, Ratchet realized he was rubbing over his chassis. He wondered if he’d ever shake the habit.

There was a sting at the thought, something that just felt nauseating and downright upsetting. Still staring, Ratchet looked at his arms. He remembered holding the child, he remembered feeling it wiggle in his embrace. Now, there was nothing. Like everything that had occurred was all a part of Ratchet’s traumatic imagination.

It all just felt wrong.

“Can I see them?” Worry rose inside Ratchet as he looked at Pharma because he knew what he’d say. He understood what he’d say. But even still, he looked at Pharma asking, pleading for this.

Pharma looked conflicted, and upset. Upset that Ratchet would put him in this position. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ratchet understood. But he fought that response.

“Please, I need to know they’re alright.” He did, because the last thing Ratchet pulled from his memory logs was a field of ruin with sparkless frames scattered around.

The confliction within Pharma inevitably moved the medibot to stand and turn toward the door. “Alright. Just for a moment.”

The wait had been the longest Ratchet’s ever felt, at least that’s what his tense systems made him feel. He shifted to sit more upright when Pharma finally returned pushing in a hover basket. Automatically he leaned forward, optics bright and body twitching to reach out and grasp the being inside.

There was a disappointed huff heard from Pharma, even as he leaned down and took up the little one, keeping him in his arms despite Ratchet’s obvious desire to hold the child. There were noises, chirps and squeals, and Ratchet watched the small thing wiggle in Pharma’s grasp as if trying to pull away.

“He’s very vocal, obviously.” Then Pharma shifted and showed the squirming mechling off. With Ratchet so close, his field reached out, petting the restless sparkling and as soon as he had the squirming paused as bright amber optics flickered, looking around the room before zoning in on Ratchet’s form. Pharma let out another sigh. “You want to hold him?”

Of course Ratchet did. He couldn’t take his optics off of him, and to just see him without having the opportunity to hold him would be an absolute crime he wouldn’t forgive himself for. And so as Pharma shifted closer, Ratchet’s arms automatically spread in acceptance.

As soon as the sparkling was in Ratchet’s arms, the little one shifted, pressing close to his carrier’s chassis as he had before, and rubbing his face into white paint. It was from there Ratchet scanned over him and took everything about him in.

Right then Ratchet shuddered out a sob. He had to shift his sparkling into one tight arm as his other hand bent up to try to conceal the static tumbling out of his mouth. No blues, reds, or oranges; Ratchet’s sparkling was nothing but whites, silvers, and blacks. And that face, that face was so similar to his sire’s.

The cries that proceeded afterward were just as ugly, but oh so relieving. A smile spread, even in the grief of it all. Ratchet was smiling.

“When I first found out I thought that it might have . . .” Shaking his helm, Ratchet shook out a sob as his hand came down, petting down that helm. “But I didn’t want to hope because I knew in the end I’d be a fool to.” A laugh came now, one mixing so much into the static corrupting his vocals that it really was just another cry. “And now I have a son.” The pain moving Ratchet’s features also moved his hand to brush down the child’s helm, digits caressing small facial plating as bright optics looked up at him. “ _We_ have a son. Megatron, we have a . . .”

Once again Ratchet doubled over in agony. His sparkwrenching sobs echoed off the walls and continued to be the only sound to fill the room as Pharma kept his silence in the moment. However, it hadn’t take long before the carrier’s distress began to upset the sparkling.

Chirps and clicks muddled the sobs until Ratchet had to pull himself out of his pity to the one demanding his attention. He smiled, letting the sparkling clutch his digits as those upset optics looked up at him.

“I’m sorry, my little one. I’ll try not to make you upset again.” Ratchet felt strength in the grasp of that small servo. So much like his sire. Looking to Pharma he asked, “Has he been fed?”

Pharma chortled, crossing his arms. “Does a newbirthed ever feed within cycles of being pulled from their carrier?”

With a nod, Ratchet shifted his chassis plates until the opening was enough for the sparkling to perk at the scent of concentrated energon. Ratchet watched his son move then, small hands gripping plating while he mouthed at the offered teat, glossa licking at the tip to rouse moisture before he latched on completely.

Nestled, Ratchet leaned back in his berth, letting himself find some relaxation in the pressing moment.

“Easy with your reserves. You were on critical when you were brought in and I just got you balanced before you booted,” Pharma spoke up, pressing closer, his optics watching the feeding.

Ratchet gave him a look. “Even you know better than to caution a carrier to feed their offspring.”

Pharma quieted for a moment. He was troubled. Ratchet knew why.

“Now that you know,” Pharma began, his words slow, but pressing. “Do you still plan to . . .?”

Ratchet understood. He never really stopped processing the matter, even as he held one of the two loves of his life. Looking down, Ratchet continued to stroke over the child’s tender plating just to feel him, just to know he was real, that he was really in his arms.

“I . . .” Ratchet’s sure answer suddenly faded away. A wave of protection flooded him as soon as he felt his son tug on the teat he nursed from. The motion pulled at Ratchet’s coding, the one urging him to hold and keep. He wanted to. How could he honestly let go of the only thing he has left of his mate? “I-I’m not sure . . .”

“Ratchet.” Pharma pressed closer now. His hand reached out and laid against Ratchet’s arm. He ignored the way he flinched at the touch. “You promised yourself, and you promised me.”

“But that was before I was for sure.” Ratchet’s arm tightened, his field rising to push at Pharma as if he was a threat. Pharma ignored that as well.

“That didn’t mean you loved him any less.” Pharma nodded to the sparkling. “Tell me, Ratchet, what do you think they’ll do if they find out—if Prime finds out—that you birthed a terrorist’s sparkling?”

“He’s not a terrorist!” Ratchet bit back more violent than he thought he would, and once more Pharma stood unfazed.

“But. He. Is,” Pharma pressed. “Ratchet, he’s murdered and destroyed and, and, invaded complete cities!”

“But he’s also created life,” Ratchet defended while he clutched his son. Grief riddled his features, but as he looked down he was able to pull out a smile, if just for him. “Out of all the things to hate him for, I can’t hate him for that. So how am I supposed to let him go?”

“Ratchet—” Just as Pharma moved to say more a knocking rattled against the door. When it slid open the familiar frames of Thunderclash and Orion Pax were revealed.

Wide smiles and relieved optics fell upon the medibot.

“Thank Primus you’re online!” Thunderclash was the first to slide next to Ratchet’s berth. “I was about to take care of you myself after Pharma and that damn medical staff took four cycles to stabilize you. You had us worried, Ratchet.” He reached forward and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder strut. “I’m so glad you’re well.”

Moving his hand away from his child, Ratchet laid it against Thunderclash’s and offered him a smile. “It does me good to see you too.” He then looked past and zoned in on Orion. “Orion.”

Silently, Orion made his way to Ratchet’s side. He didn’t reach out to touch, instead he offered affectionate brushes with his field while optics shined in relief down on the medic. Soon enough they fell on the feeding child.

“I thought Pharma had taken him away.” He glanced toward Pharma who only shook his helm.

“I had, but Ratchet wanted to make sure he was well. If I had known he wouldn’t let go then I never would have folded,” Pharma answered, ensuring to press his vocals toward Ratchet to show his dislike for his reluctance.

Ratchet made a face back toward his fellow medic, but moved away from confrontation in respect to keeping the peace for the youngling in the room. He could already feel his bubbling dislike for the unrest within those surrounding and all Ratchet wanted him to focus on was filling his tank.

In his moment of silence, Ratchet noticed Orion’s staring optics. Yet it was Thunderclash who made the first comment.

“Ratchet, I’m going to be honest and say that that little guy looks nothing like Proteus.”

And Ratchet was so very glad for that.

“He’s not Proteus’s, is he?” Orion and Thunderclash waited for the answer, but Ratchet could see understanding in their optics.

Ratchet shook his helm, content in his quiet.

“Did Megatron know?” Ratchet looked back toward Orion. There was something in those blue optics of his, something concerned for this revelation.

Shaking his helm again, Ratchet answered, “I didn’t even know until . . .”

They understood, as they knew why they shouldn’t suddenly press him to relay this message to the actual sire. How could Ratchet? How could he reach a mech who’s thrown Cybertron into a civil war?

“Then what’ll you do?” Thunderclash reached out, placing a hand on the sparkling. He hadn’t seemed to mind.

While the wondering optics of Orion and Thunderclash were easier to maintain, the pressing gaze from Pharma is what troubled Ratchet. He was quiet again, watching as his son pulled away, a mess of energon smeared across his face. Situating him, Ratchet did his best to wipe away what he could, minding his squirming. After the cleaning the little one moved, wiggling himself closer to Ratchet’s chassis again and booting down.

“They won’t always be so simple, Ratchet,” Pharma persisted. “Especially when this one finds out about his sire. What do you think he’ll do? What’ll you do, hm?”

“It’s just that,” Ratchet finally spoke up. “Who will take him? Who will take the sparkling of a terrorist?”

“Not many mecha know about that, and it’d be in yours and his best interest to keep it that way.”

Optics turned toward the door to see Dai Atlas. He’d come with the band of delegates from Iacon as soon as the message of Polyhex’s security was signaled. His personal visit was a surprise, but accepted.

Coming toward them, he kept a respectable distance, but peered curious optics at the resting child lain across Ratchet’s chassis. He didn’t make further mention about the sparkling’s parentage, but there was obvious confirmation swirling in his scarlet optics.

“You have my sincerest condolences over the fate that’s befallen you, Ratchet.” Dai Atlas placed his hand over his chest before turning toward Thunderclash and Orion. “I was told by Sentinel of his impressment from the both of you. Unfortunately, your volunteering might shift into conscription if he cannot bring the other cities to their knees. Despite the victory today, there doesn’t seem to be a clear end in sight. This future of ours that we’ve created now must fall upon the defenseless.” He looked back toward the carrier and offspring. Regret washed over him and as he shifted he shook his helm. “Again, I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Thunderclash was inclining his helm respectfully. “If I have to serve then I will with all respect.”

“As will I,” Orion said.

“My schedule’s already busy as is, what’s more to add to it?” Pharma shook his helm. There was upset, but acceptance. It was all one could do in these trying times.

“Where would I fall in all of this?” Optics turned back toward Ratchet. Many pondered the same question.

“Where would you like to fall, Ratchet?” Dai Atlas asked.

In the moment of process Ratchet took everything in, from the expectant looks from his friends to the weight of his child across his chassis. After everything all he wanted was to hold onto his son and hide away from the world, but in the same sense he wanted to support his friends and he wanted to be there to help the injured, those he knew would be gravely affected by this upcoming war.

Ratchet tore apart right there.

“I want to be there beside you.” He looks at his friends before glancing down to the life in his arms. “But I also want to be there for him.” But. But he knew he could never have both, and he knew he couldn’t choose. That choice was already decided. “It won’t be fair for him, so I . . .” Ratchet paused, trying to say it, to clarify it, but it was just so damn hard to speak. “I have to let him go. But I’m just so damn frightened over the idea!”

Of course Ratchet was. He was a new carrier. These heightened feelings would recede in time, but right now they were tearing up his internal structure.

“If you would have it, I will take your son.”

Ratchet was pulled out of his turmoil and looked toward Dai Atlas. What did he say?

Dai Atlas took a step forward, reaching out his field in sincerity. “I can’t guarantee that I, myself, will remain unaffected by this war, nor can I assure he won’t in some way be affected, but I have multiple estates, many of which are heavily protected. He will have a chance to grow in relative peace, far from those wishing to hurt him, to hurt you, far from the questions of his parentage.”

“You . . .” Immediately, Ratchet’s coding forced him to hate the idea, to abhor the notion of another taking his child, of a mech swearing to be a sire to him when clearly he had a sire, but then Ratchet pushed that drastic coding aside and processed everything the senator had offered. Really, it was quite selfless of him. “You would do that?”

“There are many things I need to atone for, and if I can start by this then I would do it,” Dai Atlas answered.

Ratchet returned to silence. He laid there, hands over his son as he slept in the comfort of his carrier’s field. The thought of pushing him away was sickening, but the thought of others finding out about his sire and seeking harm on him was more so. And Ratchet knew that there were too many who would do such things.

Why? Why did it all have be this way?

“Ratchet.” Pharma was coming closer. He was reaching out with hands that wanted to steal, looking at Ratchet with optics that could never understand.

Ratchet shifted away, embrace tight, selfish. He knew he had to, but . . . “Please,” Ratchet pleaded. His optics were offline to shut the world away so that he could only focus on what he felt, and what he felt was the weight of his child on his chassis, in his arms, and the warmth of his frame against him, curled up so closely to his very spark. “Let me hold him, just for a little longer.” His hands moved over back plating, shoulder struts, ending to cradle that small helm.

“Ratchet.”

“Please.” Ratchet was glad for the answered silence, for Pharma backing away to give him time to focus on himself and the shorter time he had to spend with his son, with Megatron’s son. And they gave him all the time he needed, but in the end it wasn’t nearly enough. A tale so similar a fate to the mechs he’s loved so much in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Ratchet's main theme here really was: Say Something by A Great Big World (T-T)  
> Haha, and maybe we'll slap Megatron across the face with State of Mine's cover of What Hurts The Most. Because!
> 
>  
> 
> Say whaaat, Dai Atlas's legit son is adopted? Naw, whoda thunk? I mean, that child don't even look like him, hur, hur (and yes, we are speaking about Speeder here ;) ).
> 
> Wooo! One more chapter to go! CRAZY!


	13. Even Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh! Holy moley! I can't believe I finished this!  
> It's really thanks to all of the love that I managed anything, so really, you, my lovely readers, are the MVP's! Always!  
> Please enjoy the final chapter of In These Hands!

No one expected the war to last as long as it did, in as much no one expected the measures from each opposing side to drain the planet in their attempt to end it. Accepting Cybertron was dead was hard enough, understanding the need to leave for survival was just as difficult. However, the course ahead needed coordinates, sure ones, and as reasonable as that was the unfortunate aspect was that these codes currently resided in the processor of one mech, one presently in need of extraction from the heart of enemy territory.

Highbrow was one of the Autobots' best agents, and more than a few times he's come out of the most dire of circumstances with his helm intact, but the distress of the current situation called for all severity. Given that he was the only 'bot possessing the sole route log to the life-saving star system, the importance of his procurement fell into the highest of levels for both sides.

Embedded deep into the recess of the Decepticon capital as well as confirming framal damage, an extraction squad was wound together to infiltrate the enemy territory, and a medibot brought along to stabilize Highbrow's confirmed condition. It was a good thing that said medibot happened to be Ratchet; he being the only among the squadron with enough knowledge of Kaon's layout and sublevels to successfully navigate through the systems undetected.

Not that he was the first medic selected for the job. Oh no.

‘ _Primus below, what in the nine pits are you doing in Kaon?!_ ’ Jazz looked less than thrilled and the intensity of his gaze was meant to scorch the scolded, however Ratchet took every pitch, hitch, and glare in stride. It was only a comm message anyway.

"A medic was needed, so here I am," Ratchet responded as he and the others—a holomaster by the designation of Hound, an illusion specialist by the designation of Mirage, a strongbot by the designation of Brawn, and a kid by the designation of Bumblebee—moved down old systems once frequented by the medibot ages ago. Just as the pathways were then, they were rarely used in the present.

Jazz made a face. ‘ _Ambulon was designated to go. Not you_.’

Ratchet snorted. "Ambulon? He wouldn't know how to walk in a circle down here. I know Kaon, so it makes sense that I went."

‘ _And Kaon knows you, Ratchet_ ,’ Jazz reminded. ‘ _Slag, there are all kinds of scenarios that can happen if you're caught_.’

Ratchet's lip plates twitched. He nodded toward his team. "With all due respect, old friend, you didn't select this lot with expectations to fail. I trust your judgment in their abilities and I have no intention to get caught."

Jazz looked as if he wanted to say more but Ratchet had to end the call as soon as he and the others took a stop and hid themselves from a passing patrol. As soon as they were clear, Ratchet leaned forward and looked toward the turns splitting the tunnel.

"Looks like they came from the Sentra District. Our best chance to remain covert would be to try the northeast sub rails. They were run down long ago, and I doubt the war encouraged the Decepticons to get them running again."

Ratchet motioned for the others to follow with caution.

"I didn't know you used to live in Kaon." The young 'bot, Bumblebee, was smiling with enthusiasm as he pressed forward alongside the doctor. "After all this time I thought you were an Iacon native."

"I lived in these parts for a time," Ratchet replied, optics forward, ever scanning the area before them. "That was many cycles ago, but even after all that time, nothing's really changed."

Brawn pulled on his attention with a snicker. "Yeah, I'll bet those insignia carvings and the statues of the Deceptichums’ mighty leader might be a change for you."

His humor was shared by the others if only to make fun of the enemy's innate nature to worship their hierarchy. Ratchet kept to himself. His opinions on the matter best left unsaid.

Maneuvering and dodging light patrol was easy enough, locating their target was something else entirely. Highbrow had given his location but come two kliks out Ratchet and the others were informed that he was forced to move to avoid encroaching hostiles. It really was curious how he managed to change positions given his supposed condition, but they had yet to ask the mech.

"Primus, do you think they're sniffing closer?" Hound questioned while peering over their cover to see four full squadrons pass under archways and march away. Their pace and optics obviously in search.

"One can assume," Mirage replied.

"Doesn't matter. We just have to get there first." Ratchet turned and then pointed toward an alley. "Take that, but be careful. It's a tight squeeze but that doesn't mean we won't run into opposition."

After a few more dodges and subtle pedework, they were finally able to find their mech.

"Highbrow!" Bumblebee was the first to the ailing 'bot's side. When he sent his conditional status, he wasn't at all exaggerating his predicament.

"Primus! Look at what they did to you." Hound grimaced, mirroring his companions' expressions. However it was their medibot who pushed past the shock of the missing arm and the shattered chassis and severely melted helm. In an instant Ratchet was kneeling down and laying his hands on the mech to assess the damage.

In the cover of broken archways and discarded scrap from decrepit buildings and useless provisions, Ratchet ran his diagnostics, ignoring the obvious extremities to locate what functionality he could to stabilize the mech and everything he was to him and the Autobots at the moment.

"I'm surprised you're still functioning," Ratchet said lowly as he ran his digits over charred exposed wiring and hanging plates. It was near mortal, and with Ratchet's current inventory, he wondered if he was even capable of saving him.

Pulling out what he could from his subspace Ratchet attempted to keep the noise to a minimum. There was absolutely no plausible way of attempting to escape the city with Highbrow the way he was. Too much of a liability would only result in the offlinment—or worse: capture—of all of them. With this understanding, Ratchet could feel the pressing tension of the ‘bots surrounding him, watching the repair process with heavy concern.

“How is it looking, doctor?” Highbrow’s only functioning optic flickered toward Ratchet, its light fading, paneling failing.

With a huff, Ratchet began retracting his tools. His assumptions over his inability to salvage was correct, especially with the limited equipment he was allowed to carry. “How is it feeling?” Ratchet nodded when Highbrow let out a pained chuckle.

“I was on my way to topside when they found out.” Highbrow moved his only arm, but even that seemed to cause him immense pain, most of it he bravely held back. “Wished they would have been a little slower in catching on.”

“You and us both,” Ratchet said with a disappointed sigh.

“Do you have it?” It was Mirage this time, pressing closer, hope in his vocals. They were all wondering, all expectant.

That flickering optic shifted toward the excursion mecha. There was a shudder rumbling under Highbrow’s chassis as his central core convertor sputtered, perhaps one of its last independent cycles. “It’s the real deal, fellas. If we can get there, then there just might be a chance for everything we’ve been hanging onto.”

Ratchet could feel the others’ heightening fields. He kept his own level and solemn. They weren’t out of the mechanic shop yet.

Standing up, Ratchet shifted his tools back into his subspace and set the heavy lights of his optics down at Highbrow. “I know none of you want to hear it, but I also know you all already understand that there isn’t much I can do for our comrade. Not with the tools I’m carrying.”

“So then what’s our next phase of action, doc?” Brawn inquired.

Ratchet was quiet, the sounds of enemies shouted in the distance, orders to find and annihilate. But it was Highbrow’s failing systems that rung the loudest. There wasn’t an option to simply let the mech offline. He was too important.

“I know a place.” Ratchet turned, skeptical optics looked at him, more so in doubt of the chance to preserve Highbrow’s life than of a location Ratchet recollected. “There’s likely to be instruments there that I can use to stabilize him.”

“It’s better than just standing around here. Let’s move.” Hound nodded and soon enough they huddled together and took up Highbrow, taking care to shift him in their arms as they followed Ratchet’s lead once more.

To say Ratchet was surprised to find the old clinic still standing was an understatement. In the early days of the War Sentinel Prime had made many assaults on Kaon City and the other principalities that aligned themselves with the antagonizing movement. Ancient structures were felled and countless mecha offlined. Ratchet was certain any semblance of the monuments from his time in the city were vanquished, but after traversing through its systems once again, he began to doubt his previous pessimism.

There it was, morphing into the decrepit landscape, void of shine, of light or structural assurance. Many of the columns and the arches contained bombardment damage as well as rust. But even as it stood, it sent a hope across each ‘bot present.

Walking back through its doorway was something else entirely for the medibot. He hadn’t gotten the opportunity to do such a thing since before . . . before everything happened. With Ratchet’s lead, his shadow cast over the curious optics of the others following behind him, watching him as he recounted the crowded waiting room, the noise-rattled repair area, and the solemn solitude of his small office. Nothing had really changed, but at the same time it was so different that Ratchet could believe he was somewhere else entirely.

“This place looks stripped; I don’t think there’s going to be anything to help us here, doc,” Brawn spoke up with a disappointed weight in his vocals.

“Not even something?” Bumblebee moved through the rooms, overturning scrap and looking around rusted holes. Ratchet was glad for his persistence, but he was looking in the wrong place.

“As many hoodlums as there are today, so too were they back when this place functioned.” Ratchet set his fists on his pelvic plating, moving, recalling where chairs once sat, where kiosks collected and tables overlaid. The place was bare of nothing but useless panels. Yet, Ratchet wondered . . . “So I learned to keep a stash away from even the most regular of optics.”

Moving, Ratchet pulled himself into his old office. There, in the corner, he knelt and began tugging at paneling. The moment a compartment opened up, the others let their curious fields shift into astonishment. There, within the cavity was a small generator, covered in dust, and beside it lay a bind of wrapped tools, many of which could find great use within the doctor’s servos.

“Would you look at that!” Mirage stood impressed. “Looks like you picked the right hiding spot.”

Pulling out the generator, Ratchet gave the old thing a few taps before testing its levels. For sitting as long as it had, he was surprised to find any sort of power surge through its core, but it was there, and Ratchet was going to use it.

Turning, Ratchet nodded for the others lay Highbrow down. “Right there. Keep him steady.”

With the generator and stored tools, Ratchet was able to divert Highbrow’s sputtering systems from verging into shock. After stabilizing his core he then delved into cutting away the damaged plating and wiring, severing even remotely functional segments with plans to attach reconstructed components in the future. Highbrow would be fine. Now, it was getting him out of the city.

“I did what I could,” Ratchet announced. “The last part’s up to you. This generator will carry him through at least twelve cycles before it’s drained completely. After that I can’t guarantee anymore preservation.”

“You did more than any of us could hope for, doctor.” Hound smiled, patting Ratchet along the shoulder strut. With a shift he nodded to the others. “Settle in for the evening, we’ll wait out the early searches and then make our move in six cycles. I’ll let the boss know of the progress.”

There was no recharge to be had. Every present processor remained alert and acute. Out of them all, it was no doubt Highbrow who managed to get a bit of the rest sought after. Though, induced medical stasis wasn’t something any of the mecha there were looking to be consensually falling into.

Mirage took the first watch. The others mostly focused on cleaning their weapons assortment and updating their communications frequencies. Ratchet remained beside Highbrow, monitoring his levels constantly, anything to keep his mainframe from the atmosphere he so haphazardly threw himself into.

After the fifth past cycle, Ratchet had to pull himself from his patient. He had to ignore the repulsion he continually felt when he watched the other mecha shift their weapons back into their frames. Built-in barrages reminded the medibot of the current struggle their people were facing, and the measures even they took to ensure a fighting chance to push back and survive. And in all that, Ratchet had to pull himself away from the fact that he was one of the many mecha who assisted in these attachments.

War was war, and it constantly reminded every single individual involved of their sins. So much programming was thrown away and retracted for the sake of advantage. Though, the War didn’t give many much of a choice to dismiss the life of a soldier. There weren’t many volunteers in this day anymore.

Where Ratchet abhorred the notion of being called or even considered a soldier, he didn’t fight the common usage. After all, lately, it’s all he’s ever really felt like. Even now.

In the beginning, Ratchet tried to ignore the call. He understood this struggle would wage longer than any estimated, and he wasn’t certain how he’d be able to fair from that aspect. He barricaded himself in the stressed and crowded clinics and hospitals, keeping his hands busy and his programming happy. Even after each of his close friends threw themselves into service Ratchet bit down the loneliness and tolerated it all.

The defining moment for his altering decision to push toward a field medic was when he was working on Sentinel Prime’s failing frame. Cybertron had been in so much need right then, as had one of his closest friends, and who was Ratchet to deny an ailing patient? But coming to terms with his new role hadn’t been easy to accept, even then Ratchet refused to see himself as anything more than a mech doing his duty to his programming, and he’d continually confirm this resolve.

And so Ratchet removed his attention away from the present and the scenarios that took him there, instead seating himself against the wall to wind away from it all. For some time he fell back to the time the walls were polished and the rooms smelled of sterilized chemicals and clean oils. There was noise, as much as what calmed the doctor. And the faces, so many Ratchet still recalled so clearly.

Designations, vocals, all of which Ratchet could still bring out of his backlog. Yet this retreat was yielding much more troubles on the doctor’s core fluctuators than fighting back the meditation of his place within this ongoing war. They were friends from another time, a point where war was never even envisioned and the idea of seeing these acquaintances functioning and online the next day plausible and expected. Now . . . now Ratchet was filled with rising discouragement that many of them had met fates he’s been known to witness. Just like the friends who used to work beside him and stand at the entrance.

Not wanting to rise any further level of anxiety whilst out of the most comforting zones, Ratchet tucked himself away from nostalgic pasts and in turn sifted through his messaging files. Each one in this certain folder was dated accordingly and for a moment Ratchet tempted himself to extract one of the earliest records, instead he found himself leaning over toward the latest and pulling up its byte to observe. Over his display old Dai Atlas moved across his optics, leaving a well-worded and respectful message, the usual monologue he often left Ratchet just before he turned the recording projector toward a young mech, adolescent but ever maturing with each video sent.

Powerful and well managed punches struck lined pillars and while Ratchet wasn’t capable of observing Dai Atlas’ visage, he was certain deep pride seeped into the mech’s features at the sight of his son’s martial progression. Despite Ratchet’s early instance that the ex-senator refrain from sending these sentimental videos for the sake of his repressed coding, Ratchet couldn’t help but find himself eternally indebted to the mech who took in his offspring as his own and raised him into who he was becoming. He chose the designation of Speeder in lieu of his attraction to faster-paced alt modes, but even with the young taste for quicker motion, Speeder certainly asserted this aspect into his combat abilities. From Dai Atlas’ upbringing the mech was well endowed in the craft of circuit-su and metallikato, and from the latest assessment, it was understandable he was well on his way to approaching a master’s degree of the techniques.

A sharp twist had Speeder shifting his weight and then striking one of the worn pillars with his leg. The force from it snapped the structure in half and the mech smiled brightly at the damage done. Where amber optics flickered almost to an intense orange, bordering red, that beaming face of his made Ratchet’s spark pulse in the most languid of ways. The features of his sire was heavy, and the yearning to take hold of the boy and wind him in his arms and never let go surged even after all this time.

Ratchet found himself smiling at the visual of his son; the child he surrendered for all of the hardest and right reasons. He looked happy and healthy, sturdy and strong. And from Dai Atlas’ continual updates, Ratchet was very aware of the boy’s unique spark, a condition undoubtedly caused by hereditary. He was going to be a valuable warrior one day. One day.

Ratchet insisted on seeing this war to an end before they were desperate enough to send boys to the frontlines.

Cutting the clip prematurely, Ratchet reeled himself in. With a vent, he rocked back to his pedes. Moving over toward Highbrow, he checked his vitals and then decided to pull him out of stasis for a cognitive assessment. The mech shifted with a groan once he onlined, but the readings from his processor came back with positive feedback.

Uneven gears grinded and malfunctioning coolant fans wheezed. The light in Highbrow’s optic never shown again. Blind as he currently was, he still turned his helm toward Ratchet’s direction.

“It’s a tough job you took,” Ratchet said while he tightened tubing. “Even when it all fell to slag you held your resolve.” Especially with the damage the intelligence operative sustained. “I commend you for that.”

Highbrow’s intake opened, lip plates moving. At first static burst out and Ratchet was ready to command silence when the pitches corrected and began forming words. “I did it because it wasn’t just for me. I did it for the others, the ones still pushing against the front lines, for the mecha tasked to infiltrate, for those wounded and for those offline. And I did it for those to come.”

Ratchet looked at Highbrow with curious scrutiny. “Those to come? You’ve got a secret squad of friends hiding out in the sub levels we should be aware about?” His smile was one to tease, knowing Highbrow was alone. He had been for some time.

“The life that will come from this.” Highbrow’s vocals burst with static once more and that was when Ratchet understood what he meant. Even still, it did the medic no good to fall into a dampening field. It was like him to not fully believe or hope too much. “This star system, there will be enough, enough for what we need, for what our future needs. I know it. I know it and so I persevered and I hang on because I want that for my brothers, for my people.”

Reaching out, Ratchet laid a rouge servo over Highbrow’s clenched hand. “You’re a good mech. Prime will be proud.”

“Tell me, d—” Highbrow twitched, gritting denta before he pulled his bearings back in. “Doctor. What do you think?”

“You don’t want to hear my opinion,” Ratchet said while he stuck highbrow with a sedative.

“You’re a medic; you’re programed to do everything you can to maintain lives, yet you doubt this path we must take for our lives, don’t you?”

Ratchet did. He was still against the idea of leaving Cybertron. Of fully retreating and letting those bastards have the planet so that they could venture off to an unknown star system and pray to the nonexistent gods that they’ll find the energy they need to survive. He wasn’t the only one to disagree with the course of action, but perhaps he was one of the only to regret losing faith in their plight to see everything to an end.

“We will see Cybertron again filled with springs and light and laughter and frames and peace.” Highbrow’s form relaxed more as the sedative coursed through his systems. There was a sure smile on his face, one Ratchet was trying to relate with.

“Do you really think _they’ll_ leave it like that?” Ratchet abhorred the notion that soon enough the Decepticons would have complete reign over the entire expanse of the planet. With no one to stop them. No one to stave off their damaging intent.

Highbrow tumbled out a chuckle. “It can’t be much worse than how we’re leaving it now.”

There was no further intention to debate an ailing ‘bot further, especially when said mech happened to be right. And so as Ratchet moved to push him back into stasis the building shuddered so violently that Ratchet nearly toppled over the wounded officer and the others let out startled gasps of alert.

“Did they find us?!” Bumblebee was trying to move toward the doorway, but Hound quickly shoved himself through the entrance and pushed the others back, his optics wide and bright.

“I don’t know how they did, but take cover!” Hound shouted. Just then the building shook with the force from the charges dropped and battered against the foundation.

“We have to move!” Mirage responded while he clutched a trembling wall. He turned toward Ratchet and nodded. “Unhook Highbrow, we’ve got to make treads!”

Ratchet’s initial reaction was to argue against a premature detachment. With Highbrow’s condition, he needed his systems stabilized for at least three more cycles before they could even attempt to risk an independence test. But as he rocked with the building, he understood there wasn’t an opportunity to retort and began powering the generator down in hopes Highbrow’s systems would carry on without the assistance.

Walls crumbled, openings made to reveal the forces raining down around them. Aerials zoomed by, circling even as they continued to drop their armament on them. In the distance there were the obvious sight of headlights closing in. The enemy came for them.

“What’s taking so long, Ratchet?” Brawn stumbled closer, hands digging into the floor plating to keep himself steady. He looked to Highbrow and then toward the medibot struggling to finish his procedures.

“You can’t rush this!” Ratchet finally bit back in the heat of it all. “I have to ween his systems off of the grids I have holding him in place. If I pull him out too quickly he’ll crash.”

“We don’t have time for that right now!” Hound called back the moment he dunked down to avoid a charge wiz over his helm. That same blast phased right into the wall Highbrow was cornered against. It was Ratchet and Brawn who immediately jumped over the ailing mech to shield him from the falling debris.

“Well, we’re just going to have to hold out until Ratchet can finalize the detachment,” Bumblebee said, coming alongside Hound to offer assistance and return fire at the craft hovering overhelm.

They needed to move, they all understood this. There was a chance they could hold off the aerial assault, but the oncoming troops were another issue in themselves. If they were surrounded on the ground there would likely be no chance of escaping the city intact. But what other choice did they have?

“Doctor.” Ratchet turned and watched as Highbrow clutched his arm, his strength minimum even as he gripped his plating. “There’s no more time to find the safest routes. I understand this. Now, you need to.” Digits twitched and Ratchet watched as Highbrow pulled his hand away and tapped his helm. “It’s all in here. Salvage what you can and return to Iacon, to the Ark.”

Ratchet felt his programing hiccup before he shook his helm and clutched Highbrow’s hand, squeezing. “No. No, we’ll get through this. ALL of us. It’ll only take a little longer.”

Highbrow was shaking his helm. “My systems are failing. I can’t function properly on my own. I won’t make it back to Prime, but at least assure my data does.” Highbrow was clinging to Ratchet now, pulling. “Please, doctor.”

Highbrow couldn’t ask that of him. He couldn’t. Ratchet refused to give up on him, no matter the circumstances. However, the situation became dire. Everyone risked their sparks and Highbrow was the only one with the bearings to accept that there would be casualties, the only one willing to admit it would be his own.

“Ratchet!” Hound pressed, his field tense as further strikes fell upon their barricade. The building was shuttering more and pieces of the flooring crumbled away.

With a glance toward the generator and then back to Highbrow, Ratchet finally accepted his next phase of action. As quickly as he could, he began shutting down cerebral modules, severing the power flow from the frame and the helm. But the moment Ratchet reached for the vertebrae cable links Highbrow’s hand shot up and caught one of his servos. He looked at him, and Highbrow looked back despite being blind.

“Till all are one.”

The fields pressing around them were full of grief, but even still the others honored Highbrow’s sacrifice by standing at attention and replying with, “Till all are one.”

As common as the phrase was among their faction, given the current year and the mounting dark history, Ratchet found his responses slow and sometimes nonexistent. And so he nodded and carried on the only thing he could do in that moment.

Aside from slightly melted panels, pulling Highbrow’s helm off wasn’t difficult. What was was watching his frame sputter, stutter as systems failed and locked, inevitably shutting down until the very color from the mech’s plating began to fade.

It wasn’t the first time Ratchet’s watched a spark expire, but it never became easy to do so. The others there to witness Highbrow’s expiration were quiet and respectful, optics now looking at the helm in Ratchet’s arms and then at the doctor that clung to it.

“What are we waiting for?” Ratchet moved past the body. “Let’s get going.”

The moment they stepped a pede out of the doorway plasma shots melded into the foundation, bursting and eating away any further leverage. Then, down careened the building.

"Whoa!" Bumblebee nearly fell face forward hadn't Brawn latched ahold of him. But even as the group clung and tried to balance themselves on the tipping precipice, there was still the need to run.

"This way!" Mirage pointed toward the crumbling hole in the flooring. It was just large enough to slip through and the weight of the housing structure only leaned away from its passage. Everyone was encouraged to make it to that escape route.

"Gah!" Ratchet happened to catch his footing. His weight collapsed a rusted board and now the frame clung to him, pulling him into the collapse.

"Ratchet!" By the time the others noticed, the building had tumbled, folding in on itself and morphing into another pile of scrap and ruin.

The sheer weight of the debris that had poured over him disgruntled the medic. By the time the disarray had all settled Ratchet was surprised he was even still online.

"Ngh! Damn it!" Ratchet tried to move but from the malfunction signals popping up in his display he understood he was completely immobile. "Guh, I want to say I've been through worse, but slag, being buried in a collapsing building is something else entirely."

Venting, Ratchet was at least glad for the semi pocket he landed into. His torso on up lay only underneath dust and grime, however his arms, legs, and everything else in the abdominal region was incapacitated. All he could really do was turn his helm.

Looking to his right he noticed a round shape. Highbrow's helm wasn't too far from him. Of course there wasn't a way to move toward it. Ratchet had no other option but to wait for the others to dig him out—that is if they could come back.

Laying there with the inability to do anything was rubbing at Ratchet's systems at an agonizing pace. There was a likelihood that he'd be there for cycles if not longer before any aide came. Though, with how heavily they were under fire before, the medibot completely understood why there wasn't swift rescue. After cycles he even wondered if the Decepticons knew he was down there.

Then, suddenly, a small piece of scrap moved under the vibration of a step. It clamored down until it clinked against the slab currently pinning Ratchet's right arm. Wary optics looked up and witnessed more clutter displace and tumble his way. Then, there was an opening and bright amber lights shined down.

Primus, those better not be Decepticons.

From Ratchet's position he made out five silhouettes. A larger frame accompanied by four smaller forms. Each moved about, overturning pieces as if in search of something. In their endeavor they began collapsing the pocket Ratchet was cradled in and the weight from the ruins began crushing him.

"No, stop!" Ratchet's vocals were fading in volume as static burst from current framal tension. "You're going to collapse everything!"

A cry of pain turned into a heavy burst of static when Ratchet's vision went red with systematic warning notifications. He was certain he was crushed to death the moment everything shut down into a world of black nothingness.

That certainly wasn't the case when he booted up again and found himself clear of pinning debris and surrounded by a group of small mecha. Instantaneously Ratchet moved himself into defense; jumping to his pedes and swinging out his scalpels. If he knew anything from minibots, especially the likes of Rumble and Frenzy, it was that you didn't want to end up as their victims.

Except these minibots weren't really minibots in the sense of minicons. They were children.

The group quickly scampered away, tripping over each other in fright as they retreated to the largest mech in their company. This 'bot was near the same size as Ratchet, but one who looked just as worried over his safety as the little ones.

They were staring. Their optics focused partially on Ratchet’s blades and then partly on the red sigil laying vibrantly across his chassis. Ah, so they were Decepticons.

Feeling the fright in their fields and observing the worry in their optics made Ratchet’s tank churn, especially after understanding he was the one posing a threat. Within the next beat he shifted away his blades and finally took in his surroundings. The scenery hadn’t changed much, but he was certain he was down another level, crammed under broken archways and abandoned buildings. Piles of scrap lay scattered about, many of it oddly enough sorted out. When he looked back toward the children and the mech they crowded around Ratchet came to the conclusion that this was likely an orphanage. A forgotten one by the looks of it.

“Are you the ones who fished me out of the wreck?” Ratchet watched many of the children nod, but it was the larger mech who spoke.

“We did,” he said. “We meant you no harm, Autobot.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “No, it’s just . . .” He vented, shaking his helm again at what he was about to do. “Thank you for pulling me out.”

His sincerity seemed to quell a majority of the tension. The guardian mech stepped forward and approached Ratchet. He stopped only a few steps away and assessed the medibot before he held out his hand in invitation.

“I’m Gorgon, I’m their caretaker. I see that you’re a . . .” Ratchet saw the way his golden optics glanced once more to the symbol on his chassis, but he averted that gaze instead toward the ones painted on his shoulder struts and even up toward the chevron on his helm. “A medic. It’s strange; that you’re here and all.”

At the reminder of his predicament, Ratchet also recalled just why a lone Autobot medic was doing in the sub levels of Kaon city. Glancing down, Ratchet saw just how empty his hands were. The helm, where was Highbrow’s helm?

His search didn’t go unnoticed.

“Your friend.” Ratchet looked to Gorgon. There was sympathy in his field and in the light of his optical paneling. He turned and motioned toward a sector nearby. “We laid him to rest with the others.”

Ratchet shifted. “The others?”

He was led over toward the far end of the room where a broken arch curved overhelm. Up above the ceiling had rusted away from concentrated acid rainfall. The opening allowed the light of the moons and stars to prism down, and perhaps it would have been a wonderful view of the higher levels hadn’t said upper levels not been just as slagged as the level they were on. However, it was what expanded underneath that pulled the bulk of Ratchet’s attention.

There were mounds, small mounds. All evenly spaced, and each with a pillar erected with a name carved into it. They were graves.

Two mechlings ran over toward a particularly small mound, circling it and looking up brightly at Ratchet and the one named Gorgon. Gorgon then shifted, turning to Ratchet with an understanding light in his optics and field.

“When it comes to loss, we are not so different,” he said. With a turn, Gorgon nodded his helm and immediately the children began unstacking the plates of scrap placed over the missing helm. They returned the piece to Gorgon who in turn handed it back over to Ratchet. “I understand if you want to take him back to the other side.”

When Highbrow’s helm was back within Ratchet’s hands, the weight of it all seemed so light in comparison to what he was witnessing right then. As surprising as it was to know that the Decepticons had the capability of reproducing, more disturbing was the fact that it was no surprise that many of these creations formed from said unions met premature ends. There wasn’t enough energy sources to feed them all and extend the war. And the war always came first.

With a nod, Ratchet meant to speak words of thanks, instead what came out of his intake was, “These graves . . . they’re small. They’re all sparklings?”

Gorgon’s optics shifted downward. There was sadness, regret, and resentment in his field, but none of it toward Ratchet nor even the faction he aligned himself with. The mech nodded. “It’s not easy, especially for the youngest. I do what I can to take care of them, but energon is scarce, and alternate means of fuel is hard for their systems to digest. Their plating isn’t as thick so the acid rain corrodes them faster, and the dangers of a decrepit city takes many careless sparks. The ones that are salvaged just fade away from lack of proper care. I’ve come to accept long ago that much of my struggles to provide just won’t be enough.” There was a flash in his optics then, a flame akin to some kind of hope. “I-If you could, could you take a look at some of the children?” He motioned toward another room. “I’m sure it won’t take long, and you’re a medic, it’ll be good for them to see a ‘bot like you.”

Looking down at Highbrow’s helm, Ratchet understood his mission. He understood all those who waited for his return, who needed him to rush back to Iacon just as fast. But small optics looked up at him, and the needy press of Gorgon’s field sparked clockwork within his medical programing. Even though they were Decepticons; they deserved medical assistance just as much.

With a nod, Ratchet agreed and moved into the room to find scores of little ones laying down, many more hunched over with missing limbs, rusted plating, and malfunctioning systems. It was a pitiful sight, one that Ratchet was prepared to behold. Instantaneously he came to the first troubled sparkling, a little femme. She was once a deep green but corrosion and chipped plating made her brown undertones show more than anything else. As Ratchet laid his hands on her she started, a fright in her optics as she gazed at the symbol on his chassis.

“At ease, Highstar, he’s a medic and he’s here to help. Don’t you want to get better?” Gorgon knelt alongside Ratchet to ensure the ailing children that this Autobot meant no harm. With further coaxing Ratchet was able to get the little one to lay down so he could examine her.

Like her and many of the others, the children suffered from prolonged exposure to acid rain and malnourishment. If they didn’t rust away then they would offline from system failure. A tragic way to go, but no doubt common in these parts.

Aside from the unrepairable, Ratchet did chip and polish corroded plating, and cut and seal exposed wiring. Useless limbs were detached and malfunctioning circuitry was pulled and blocked. At the end of it all, Ratchet was rewarded with exuberant smiles and sparklings moving to reach out and touch him in thanks. Their pain was stalled and their states improved if only momentarily.

“Thank you, doctor. You don’t know how much this means to all of us.” Gorgon seemed just as excited as the children.

“Nothing is permanent,” Ratchet said. “Look, if you don’t find a proper fuel source for them all then your graveyard is going to gain more acres.” He hated to sound morbid, but it was the truth. Gorgon seemed to understand but kept the severity of it secretly wound in himself so not to startle the young lives around them.

With a motion, Gorgon pulled Ratchet away from the bouncing little ones. It was there Ratchet got the first words in.

“I understand that you’ve been likely caring for them since their emersions, but this is no place to raise children.” Ratchet was shaking his helm. “I can’t say that we’re off any better in the north, but if you choose to come to Iacon and take the little ones with you I can assure you that we’ll shuttle all of you to Messatine. There’s a facility there that’ll provide you and the children with enough sustenance to survive and thrive.”

Gorgon shook his helm and continued to do so until he looked at Ratchet in the optics and heavily said, “I can’t. I’m a Decepticon.”

“And those children are?” Ratchet vented, placing his hands on his pelvic plating. “They won’t even survive for long enough to attain their sigil.”

Be it that Gorgon seemed to grow nerved at Ratchet’s bold statements, he needed to hear them. Ratchet could feel the conflict within his field, that of staying true to the ones he stood beside and then to the children he so loyally cared for. Stubbornness has already cost both sides so many, and he didn’t want that to continue to be the cause of more offlining, especially such young sparks.

“I’m sorry, doctor, but that’s something I just can’t do.” Gorgon stood his ground, yet, even as he did, Ratchet could sense his regret.

Ratchet sounded a sigh. “That’s a tough choice to live with, you know.”

Gorgon nodded, slowly, but then Ratchet watched as he swayed as if gripped with stabilizer misalignment. When he tipped over, Ratchet was there to catch him.

“Easy now. In all the excitement, we forgot to take a look at you. Come on, sit down for me.”

Gorgon followed Ratchet’s lead this time and even in the silence of the examination, he heeded the medibot’s advice. However, the diagnosis returned in a similar fashion to the main ailment of the orphanage: malnourishment, though Gorgon’s case was caused by something completely different.

“You’re carrying.” Ratchet tapped at the recorded readings and looked to Gorgon with zoned optics.

Gorgon didn’t meet the gaze, instead he remained seated, leaning against one of the walls, quiet in his processing. “I know.”

“Then you know that litters deplete a carrier’s stores faster than a full mature system can run through them,” Ratchet responded. “I detected two newsparks. It’s better than six, but that still stands that two sparklings are in need of your energy sources, the ones slim enough to find around here.”

Gorgon was quiet. Ratchet understood why. No carrier wanted to be berated by their choice to love the unborn, even if they came at the most inopportune times.

"Is there a sire in the picture?" It seemed like Gorgon ran the orphanage by himself.

With a nod, Gorgon said, "He's off fighting. I shouldn't be the one to hold him back, especially not for this."

Ratchet was piecing everything together now. "Does he know?"

Gorgon then shook his helm. "I wanted to tell him, but . . ."

"Duty calls," Ratchet completed, now absolutely skeptical about the relationship Gorgon pertained with the litter's sire. As disapproving as his frown was he did try to hold some empathy for the mech. "I'm surprised you managed to obtain a gestational chamber, especially in times like these."

Gorgon seemed quieter at the mention. "I've made due like I always have, and the 'bot I got it from didn't need it."

Ratchet didn't want to press further inquire into the controversial subject so he focused his attention back on the lowering levels.

"Then I can't stress enough how it would be best for you, the little ones, and _your_ little ones to make the trip to Delphi. Your efforts to spark them in the first place will be for naught in a couple deca-cycles. They won't last on what you have and in turn they'll take you with them."

"I appreciate your care, doctor, I really do." Gorgon placed a hand over his chassis, rubbing affectionately. "But this is my plight. I couldn't ask to agitate anyone into this."

"Yeah, well it's not just yours anymore." Ratchet shifted the level device on his arm to show the other mech the smooth pulse rates of the detected sparks. "I'm honestly surprised your coding hasn't blatantly forced you to seek assistance by now, and excuse me for having no faith in your supposed lover. From the usual Decepticon attitudes it was likely just a fling just to have a good frag. You've honestly wasted your affections in a time like this."

"Do you say that because you're concerned for my offspring or do you say that because you don't believe a Decepticon is capable of love?"

Ratchet scoffed, ready to sputter a response when Gorgon continued instead.

"It's been that long, hasn't it? This civil war. It's gone on for so long and we've fought and died over and over that we forget we are still the same race. Decepticons, Autobots, we act like we can't relate, like we have nothing in common, even our own mechanics. How easy it is to forget, hm? Here I am, doctor, capable of emotions such as grief, regret, fear, happiness, and even love. And I have been subject to the same kind of passion from another of my fellows." He rubbed at his chassis again. "They are proof enough. What more should I give you?"

Ratchet held his glossa, listened, stood and observed every word and emotion. Gorgon wasn't wrong no matter how much Ratchet wanted to remind him or his own memory. But he remained quiet, understanding, and accepting their differences with respect.

"Have you ever loved, doctor?"

Ratchet glanced down, pulling back into the recess of his processor of a time that seemed as if it never happened. "Yes."

"Did you ever get the chance to create from that passion?"

Ratchet nodded, even the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth plates. "Yes, a son. I carried a son."

"And where is your mate?" Gorgon seemed generally curious, grasping to find a bridge to share with the opposition. Yet there Ratchet stood, letting the reality of his relationship surface just to remember the past and the present.

"I lost him to the war."

Gorgon's field morphed with sympathy and in that Ratchet considered the mech's own affections. Shaking off the rising grief, Ratchet shifted and took out the rations he had taken before heading out on the mission and then handed it to the mech.

"I know you're set in your ways, so . . . here, it's not much but every bit counts for the ones you're carrying." Ratchet watched as Gorgon's bright optics whirled in surprise. When he took the cubes he clutched them to his chassis, a small smile forming on his lip plates.

"Thank you, doctor."

Ratchet nodded and then took up Highbrow's helm in his arms. "I wish you the best of luck."

Gorgon nodded as he stood to his pedes. “And I you. Be careful. Avoid the northwestern systems. They’ve been ramping the patrols up there.”

With that caution in mind Ratchet transformed and sped away. After every few cycles he attempted contact with the team, but static was the only answer he ever got on the other end of the line. There was worry for his comrades’ safety as well as his own over the possibility of being stuck in Kaon without a securer means to get out. The only option left was to make contact and Ratchet certainly couldn’t maintain that with so many signal dampeners around.

If there was anything Ratchet took away from the likes of Grappler or even Wheeljack, it was that the cross fields of the dampeners would in turn disrupt themselves and give clairvoyance to the one situated therein. Of course that meant the possibility of exposer, but what other choice did Ratchet have?

Transforming, Ratchet skidded to a halt, servos pressed against his chassis to ensure the security of the cargo he carried within his subspace. When he scoped the lay of the area he dreaded the open scape, but he moved toward the towers, inevitably situating himself in between their shadows. Then, he tried contacting again.

“Hound, Mirage, Brawn, Bumblebee, do you read me? This is Ratchet.”

While the static was less disruptive, there was still no reply. So Ratchet tried again.

“Mirage, Brawn, Hound, Bumblebee, this is Ratchet. Can you hear me?”

Then, finally, ‘ _Ratchet?_ ’ It was Bumblebee.

Ratchet vented, helm falling in relief. “Thank Primus,” he muttered before pressing into the frequency again. “I’m at the northwestern sector near Level F-D3. I’m not entirely sure about your situation, but I’m in heavy need of an extraction along with my cargo.”

‘ _I can’t believe you’re still functioning!_ ’ Bumblebee’s young enthusiasm almost made Ratchet smile hadn’t the whine of seekers overhelm derailed his relief.

“Yeah? Well, it won’t be for much longer if I stay here.” Ratchet crouched, hoping the shadows of the towers would conceal enough of him to keep him out of the scopes of the enemy. A very unlikely chance given his bright framal coloring. Damn.

‘ _This is Hound. We haven’t left the city yet and are currently en route toward your location_ ,’ the other mech assured.

“You’re not the only one.” Ratchet couldn’t wait any longer, not when he noticed the pivots the aerials took as they dipped lower, leaning closer toward his position.

‘ _Ratchet, what’s happening?!_ ’

“I’ve got seekers on my tailpipe. I can’t stay in this sector.” The static began growing, the line wavering.

‘ _Can you make a circle and meet us back at the original extraction point? We’re close by_.’

“I’ll do my best,” was all Ratchet could say, and all he could assure because as those jets dipped and began firing charges, he wasn’t quite certain if he’d make it out of this altercation.

Zigzagging was the usual means to avoid the overhelm fire, but more often than not the lay from the skies would maim and offline. Ratchet’s worked on many an unfortunate ‘bot caught up in the devastation of an aerial assault, and he, himself, has lucked out from the main damages, though this time he was the only target, and seekers didn’t usually miss.

One of the rough aspects was that there was hardly any cover. A field of signal dampening towers wasn’t the best selection for cover, though this chase did cause a few to crumble under seeker misfires. From that Ratchet was able to send his coordinates to the team, ensuring that if he did meet his end in the quickening future then they’d know where to look for him and the helm he clutched close.

Slamming on the brakes, Ratchet swerved, tipping almost into the nearby crevice. He cursed himself for being so stupid to pin himself there, but it didn’t stop him from speeding off toward a pair of towers nearby. Unfortunately, he never made it to them, instead he felt a charge heat the ground below him, scorching his underside as the impact lifted him off his tires and into the air. He managed to transform before he hit the ground with a roll, his frame nearly toppling over into the crevice once more.

With a groan he pressed his hand against his chassis, shaking at the way the thermal charge ate at the plating. It wasn’t the worst wound he’s ever sustained but it still didn’t hurt any less. And as the two seekers transformed and landed near him, he realized he’d be feeling much more of the harder side of their armament.

“Well, well, look who’s finally come home.” Thundercracker was snickering down at the ‘bot while Skywarp held a humored smirk. Leaning down, the blue plated jet reached out and took hold of Ratchet by the arm, lifting him as if he were nothing but a rag doll. “You should have told us you were fed up with the Autobots, we would have given you a luxury escort to Kaon.” With a loud laugh he pushed the medibot back into the ground.

Denta grit and optics flickering, Ratchet endured the weight of the jets towering over him. They laughed and mocked as they pushed against Ratchet’s ligaments, bending until gears popped and plating indented. They wanted to hear the medic scream, but Ratchet refused to give them such satisfaction.

Skywarp and Thundercracker’s humor over Ratchet’s pain never wavered, even if the Autobot remained silent and defiant. However, their crude jabs eventually leveled out to the original purpose of their search.

“You think he has it?” Skywarp questioned.

“While I’d be more than happy to pop his helm off, it seems they did no cortical transfer. Just took the traitor’s helm.” Thundercracker’s optics performed a scan down Ratchet’s frame and his smile returned. “Why, doctor, it seems there’s an abnormality detected inside you. Why don’t we perform some surgery and take that out?”

Ratchet could only gasp when Skywarp pushed his arms down onto him to keep him still while Thundercracker pulled at his chassis. He wanted to resist further but he knew that if he did so his entire frontal plating would simply be forcibly torn off, and wandering around as an Autobot in Kaon with your spark chamber exposed wasn’t the safest precaution. So he slid back the latches and allowed the seeker to pull apart his chassis before he damaged him further.

There, near Ratchet’s spark chamber was Highbrow’s helm. In horror he watched as the Decepticon reached inside and took it out.

“So much trouble, just for this.” Thundercracker snickered again, giving the helm a whirl on his digits. He looked back down at Ratchet who had moved away from Skywarp’s hold the moment Thundercracker pulled the helm from him and was now currently latching his chassis back in place, hiding, shielding his spark from the monsters overhelm.

A sharp grin morphed Thundercracker’s features then as he looked to his companion with a few nods. “Skywarp, since we finished this little mission quicker than we thought, how’s about we have a little fun before returning to base?”

Skywarp nodded enthusiastically. “Does this fun include our guest?”

Thundercracker nodded. “Naturally. I think I’ll hold him down this time while you—hey!”

In the moment of their distraction, Ratchet had lunged forward and grabbed a hold of Highbrow’s helm. Unfortunately, Thundercracker hadn’t let go.

“Get him off!” Thundercracker pushed against Ratchet while Skywarp maneuvered to come up behind and grab him. Before the violet mech could do such a thing, Thundercracker’s rough push had managed to get the medic off of him, however, the helm slipped from his servos and Ratchet took a hold of it once more.

Just as Ratchet secured the helm, he intended to land and stand his ground, but he was too close to the cliff’s edge and the force of Thundercracker’s push had tipped him over. And down he fell.

“Oh, now look what you’ve done,” Skywarp complained as he and Thundercracker peered over the crevice into the darkness.

“Gets rid of two of our problems,” Thundercracker reasoned. And with a shrug he was twisting around, transforming and taking off. Skywarp wasn’t far behind him.

Ratchet was certain this was to be his end. The bottom level of Kaon city was to be where his frame splattered and spark expired. However, the moment when he landed against an oblong structure premature to his demise, Ratchet wondered if his previous assurance was misplaced.

Still clutching Highbrow’s helm, Ratchet felt along the structure he was currently on top of. It was strange for there to be any sort of obstruction in a level crevice, yet there Ratchet stood, shuffling over it until he figured out what it was. It was definitely a building, one that was originally upright due to the rusted and bent foundational beams. It must have teetered over long ago, its length catching the other end of the crevice to secure its position. Why, it all almost reminded Ratchet of . . .

Diagonal Tower.

For a few cycles, Ratchet stood frozen. His optics shone over the old structure, over the plating just underpede. Was it really . . .? It was all still there, even after all of the fighting and raids and . . .?

Looking upward, it was clear the seekers assumed Ratchet offline. He had no followers this time. Just as he glanced back down, Ratchet tucked the helm back into his subspace and then moved along the structure, looking for the entrance. When he found it, he stared at it for a moment, debating on whether or not to enter.

Inside was better than outside. The coverage enticed Ratchet inside, but something else entirely pulled him to move along the floors until he reached a more than familiar level, and a more than familiar apartment. For some time he just stared at the numbers hanging over the doorframe. He wanted to go in, but there was a force that continued to hold him back, out of caution and fright.

By the time Ratchet entered in the command to open the door the internal fight within him was over. And as he stepped into the space that was once a home he shared with the mech he loved the most, he felt an understanding why that part of himself tried to keep him away from the place. Already the atmosphere threw down against him, a weight that was only felt within the confines of his spark chamber. A wretched feeling, but one that Ratchet carried on with.

The apartment was still just as empty as Ratchet last remembered it. This time there were signs from the raging war outside; parts of the ceiling was caved, even a few spots on the flooring were rusted, debris from tremors coated the place with a thick layering of dust. A few cabinets were still in places as well as shelves now overturned. Ratchet moved and noticed the lounge room windows were shattered, and the draft from the crevice pushed into the space constantly, displacing what rubble it could.

It was there Ratchet stood, looking out, remembering the view. Instead of vivid starry nights and colorful morning skies, the smoke of devastation clogged every visual, along with flocks of patrolling aerials and fiery smithies. When it all became too much, Ratchet turned away and moved closer to what once was his office.

Just like much in the interior, Ratchet's old office was cluttered with scrapped rusted plates, dust, and collapsed shelving. It was one of the best preserved rooms given its condition. Though, even in its current state Ratchet found himself envisioning how it all used to be, and surprisingly, it wasn't that hard.

There he was: seated at his desk, trying as he might to organize the clutter splayed all over it, at least before dinner approached. Of course in his haste he forgot to keep track of time and the familiar chime of the front door opening alerted him to his failed efforts.

"Sire!"

Ratchet had left the confines of his workspace just in time to see a white and black blur zoom past him and slam into the hulking chassis of his mate. Megatron was grinning audio to audio as their mechling pressed himself into his open arms. Within the next motion he was winding around Speeder clutching him in his embrace as he leaned upright and swung the child.

Giggles and laughter abounded as Ratchet drew closer, too endeared not to press just as close to the two and lather them with affectionate kisses. And then the day wound wind down with a meal for three in the dining room.

Ratchet moved where this dream led, standing now in the archway of the dining room where he saw himself seated alongside his conjunx and offspring, enjoying each other's company and relaying their day to one another. When their tanks were full and their levels replenished they'd retreat to the lounge room and watch as Cybertron lit up the evening. Speeder would have to be put to berth after that of which Ratchet believed the hallend room would suit. And when he was finally settled the last of the online 'bots would return to their own quarters where hands would glide over plating, and lips would press against wiring, and chassis would push against chassis, and love would be made—perhaps even another sparkling. Primus, Ratchet would have given Megatron a thousand sparklings if he had so wanted.

It was a lovely vision, one Ratchet hadn't realized he'd want so badly until the war began. There he was, standing in the doorway of where his and Megatron's chambers used to be. Just as stripped as the other compartments, save for a berth. Ratchet recalled having to leave the large piece of furniture. A shame really, there had been a lot of fond memories involving that berth, one where so much love was made—and possibly where Speeder was sparked.

Reaching out, Ratchet laid his hand over the dust-covered thing, trying as he might to chase all of those memories. Each run ended in failure and so Ratchet pulled himself away, back toward the lounge area where he took an overturned cabinet and pulled it toward the broken windows to sit and stare.

Pushing back the weight of the site was a struggle in itself. Ratchet had a team he needed to meet up with, but avoiding future collisions with the seeker kind was a top priority as well. After a moment in his processor, Ratchet realized there were no dampener towers nearby.

He tried comming.

Just as the static cleared up a noise bit through the silence, and not one coming from Ratchet's communications link. Instantly silencing the feed, Ratchet shifted, rushing to find cover beside the kitchen border wall.

What once was faint now was loud and apparent. Someone entered the abandoned apartment, moving slowly through the hall until it came to a silence near the area Ratchet's office once laid.

Spark pulsing, Ratchet did his best to keep his field retracted. He hoped that whoever decided to come in for a tour would leave just as quickly. That wasn't the case, per usual.

When the mystery 'bot moved the steps were slower, heavier. From the sound Ratchet concluded this mech was larger scaled and so a series of lists ran across his display in his worry over _who_ it was. His assumption was the seeker sort, knowing that the likes of them were the only ones who knew he'd fallen down there, but as this mech moved his frame toward the lounge room Ratchet realized his assumptions were inexcusably incorrect.

Megatron.

The last time Ratchet had even caught a glimpse of the mech was during a small skirmish that turned into a full-scale assault on Tyger Pax. Even then it was from a drone feed as Ratchet and the other medibots barricaded themselves in the operating rooms with their patients and waited for back up from Prime. The devastation was so severe that even though the Autobots secured a victory, Ratchet and his crew spent days repairing the wounded.

The Megatron he was seeing didn't at all show semblance to the one that decimated legions of opposition troops at Tyger Pax. Proud shoulder struts were drooped, bright red optics dimmer, and movement vulnerably slow. For a moment Ratchet believed the effects of this damnable place was effecting him in the same manner it had himself, but recollections of mecha he's known offlined by this tyrant's hand turned any bout of empathy from Ratchet's spark. He's seen what Megatron's become over the years and had no doubt he could wind up on the same decommissioned list. Which was why he stressed finding an escape route.

Looking around, Ratchet realized the closest opening was in fact a corroded segment in the wall just across the strip of flooring. He'd have to put some weight into knocking out more of the rusted portion so that his entire frame could fit through but it was his best option. However, moving there was another issue in itself, despite Megatron standing on the other side of the room he was still just too close.

There was no choice but to wait and watch for the right opening. Though he noticed a shift in Megatron's posture as the mech turned his helm to look at the overturned cabinet that was once Ratchet's contemplation stool. Slag.

Suddenly, dim optics brightened and a face too many have seen before offlinement scrunched, lips pulled tight as motions quickened. "Who's there?" Scarlet lights roamed around the room, agitated shadows cast away in their search. "This area is restricted. You know the penalty for ignoring my command. Now show yourself!" There was a harsh bite in Megatron's vocals, that of a lord demanding obedience. It suited the leader of the Decepticons.

After a few unrelenting beats passed, Ratchet witnesses another shift in Megatron, this time it started from his processor. When it all ended with a knowing smirk, Ratchet began worrying over his positon more.

"No, none of my mecha would be stupid enough to disregard my authority. But I didn't think the Autobots would have the ball bearings to step into my city." Megatron moved, leaning over sectors where one might hide. Ratchet didn't ignore the charging whine of the mech's ion canon. He needed to move before he was discovered.

"You're here for that spy, aren't you? Did you get a chance to find him? I did try to make sure each one of you got a piece of that wretch." With a startling crumble, Megatron had bashed down a damaged shelf, its security useless had anyone been hiding behind it. "It'd be a shame to find out he still functions after the work I did on him."

Knuckles thrummed along the walls, echoing in the empty chambers, rattling Ratchet's resolve. He was getting closer.

Glancing back over at the only plausible route, Ratchet knew he'd have to dart for it, but he also knew his limitations in that he wouldn't be able to outmaneuver an ion canon, especially the well-guided canon of Megatron's. With a shift, he froze just as the larger mech loomed overhelm, optics narrowed, still in search. Primus, he was just close enough to brush fields. Oh no, Ratchet felt his core cool the moment his field tapped against Megatron's, and it reached out in subconscious familiarity. Damn it.

"Come out before I tear this entire place asund—" Megatron's pause only followed by the tiniest push in his field against Ratchet's, as if verifying what he was feeling. "Ratchet?" His voice was low, possibly soft in a sense. Its tone rode disbelief and surprise evenly.

Another fight took place, that of Ratchet forcing his field to retract as he took the opportunity to dash for his exit. As uncovered and out in the open that he was, Ratchet felt no bite of ionic charge. Instead, he only heard Megatron shift with a shout of, "Ratchet!”

As soon as he slid toward the corner, Ratchet stamped onto the corroded flooring. The pieces gave way immediately, but it took two fully weighted stomps before the hole was large enough to portal his frame through. It gave the medic enough time to look back and see just what was pulling at his very core.

There he was, the great leader of the entire Decepticon faction. Where before he posed as a menace, now, now there was a look about him, one full of secret emotions stored away, surfacing again because right now they were reacting to Ratchet's own bubbling up.

Aside from the surprise, Megatron took a step forward. He looked lost, his mouth moved, his fingers twitched. There was desperation in his optics, a sight uncomely for a mech of his position.

"What . . . what are you doing here?" Megatron took another step forward and despite knowing better, Ratchet stalled that final push downward. The field surging out to wrap around his own felt beautiful and all Ratchet wanted to do was get lost in it.

Megatron caught the way Ratchet glanced down. He knew his intentions. A hand reached out, and two more steps forward were made. "Don't go, please, just stay, even for a little while. Stay so that I can . . . so that I . . ."

Ratchet once more beat that hope down again, the one that constantly reared its ugly helm. There wasn't a chance or moment he could have where that possible. It wasn't possible to _stay_ any longer.

With the final kick, Ratchet's form passed underneath. As soon as he rolled onto the level below he heard Megatron call out his name, and the pull from an age old bond took a toll on the medibot that he didn't think would. It slowed him down but it didn't stop him from running until he was far enough away to be alone in his agony.

Tripping over, Ratchet clung to the ground, shaking, hands pressed against his chassis as his spark rattled inside him. What he’d once weened himself off of now struck him like a null ray. He hurt, his entire frame shook with the pain he felt exploding inside his spark chamber. He wanted to believe the grief wasn’t his own, that it was transferred from the mech who had once been his conjunx, but in believing that there was still the fact that Megatron still possibly felt the same way as Ratchet did; alone, hurt, aggrieved, and more oft than not, lost. No, there wasn’t a chance that the Decepticon leader could contain any sort of these emotions, not after everything he’s done in the millions of years in this accursed war. So that left Ratchet with one conclusion: all of those emotions were his own.

The fright, the anxiety, the rush of urgency all faded away as Ratchet’s spark swirled inside him, crying out louder than he would ever let himself over a bond stretched so thin he had thought it nonexistent at this point. Even now he could feel faint taps of shared longing, and once more Ratchet refused to believe it was Megatron.

It was like that—among the piles of rubble and scrap, sprawled out and trembling—that the others found him. Ratchet briefly remembered Hound picking him up and carrying him the rest of the way out of the city, and then he recalls Jazz’s visual coming across his optical functions. The TIC had met them half way and escorted the squadron personally back to Iacon. And Jazz remained by Ratchet’s side even as he laid underneath the care of First Aid.  

“A little depleted, but his levels are balancing out now.” First Aid turned toward Jazz, a heavy expression etched in his features. “From what it appears, during two intervals, his spark wavered. It shouldn’t have been anything serious, but I think there was a chance for a shutdown in between those abnormalities. I can’t really explain the cause, but from my analysis, it wouldn’t be wise for him to tread through a mission again.”

Jazz nodded, understanding and taking in every ounce of relayed information. It was two cycles after First Aid had left that Ratchet’s levels balanced and he booted. The medic looked to his old friend and as soon as he saw the disapproval scrawled over his features, his blue optics rolled away.

“Here to hammer me, Jazz?” Ratchet shifted, laying on his side, trying to ignore his friend’s presence as well as the consistent beeping from the monitors attached to him.

“Nah, I’ll just let Prime do it.” There was a smile on Jazz’s lip plates, Ratchet could feel it even with his back turned to him.

Ratchet snorted, still battling over the ability to ignore the mech nearby as well as the constant pain ghosting inside his spark chamber. The next day when Ratchet pulled himself out of the observational room without regards to First Aid’s advice, he and the others were hailed as heroes over their task to obtain Highbrow’s data. The fallen mech had been honored while Jazz’s previous warning had come to pass as well.

“Ratchet.”

The white and red mech had been in the process of moving his medical equipment with the assistance of his staff when Prime, himself, waltzed into the medbay. He looked at Ratchet with hard optics, and despite the faceguard, Ratchet knew there was a frown underneath.

“Ah, Optimus, it’s a good thing you’re here. We need a mech with a larger build to lift the chronocore generator. The Ark’s medbay is going to need it.” Ratchet was motioning toward the machine where three of his assistants were attempting to drag it out, but their pace was less than ideal for Ratchet’s patience.

Of course the Optimus Prime didn’t move. His stance wasn’t just against heavy labor, but another reason for his visit.

“I need to speak with you in private,” Optimus affirmed, his tone even, but laced with demand.

Ratchet knew the drill. With a wave of his hand, his staff moved away from their tasks and out of the facility. As soon as they were alone, Optimus took a few steps closer.

“Jazz told me what you did.”

Ratchet nodded. “You mean how I salvaged Highbrow’s helm and the data cache inside?”

“Perceptor is the one decoding the data scheme. You did nothing but disobey orders and put yourself and Hound’s team in jeopardy.”

Ratchet vented, turning to try and rid himself of his idle demeanor. “We all made it back in one piece. Besides, there wasn’t an order against me accompanying them to Kaon.” He turned to Optimus, stance firm. “I knew that city better than any of those young ‘bots. They would have walked right into the Decepticon barracks if it wasn’t for me.”

“Jazz had briefed them all with an updated layout of the city and its levels. As he did with Ambulon who was meant to go with them,” Optimus said. “Perhaps if it had been him instead then we wouldn’t have to bury Highbrow.”

Ratchet gapped. “Are you saying I’m the one at fault for his extinguishing? Optimus, I may not look like much but I did my damnedest to save his life as any other medibot would have. Ambulon would have had to make the same decisions I have, and you know I’m glad it was me. I wouldn’t wish any medic having no other choice but to offline a mech for the sake of a faction.”

There was trouble swirling within Optimus’s optics as there was fury within Ratchet’s, and hurt as well. It was that which Optimus saw most clearly.

“While I am eternally grateful for your actions during the mission, I was informed of First Aid’s analysis after your return.”

Ratchet shook that comment away as well. “So I had a little spell at the end, nothing to worry about. I’m still functioning.” He paused when he felt a hand lay down on his shoulder strut. It stopped him from moving to sort out his equipment, it stopped him from further pulling himself away. He turned and looked at the Prime, at the one who was once—still is—a very dear friend of his.

“I don’t know how I’d manage if something happened to you,” Optimus admitted, offering the medic an affectionate squeeze. He pulled his hand away and instead reached out his field in companionship, much in the same way Orion Pax used to. “And it’s just now I realize how much this war has taken its toll on you. I want you to go to Delphi.”

Ratchet paused. “What?”

There was a short vent Ratchet had heard from Optimus, like he expected this reaction. “Messatine is so far placed from the war that there isn’t much of a threat of assault. I’m not asking you to quit the medical field, I’m encouraging it. At Delphi you’ll have a larger staff and you’ll be able to pursue your projects without energy shortages. And instead of frontline surgeries, you’ll be able to care for therapeutical recoveries.”

“Are . . .” Ratchet felt insult and upset override his hurt. “Are you _retiring_ me?”

This time Optimus let out a groan, and Ratchet’s wasn’t going to pretend he missed that optic roll. “No, I just want to ensure your longevity, and if I have to put you on Messatine then I will.”

Ratchet was shaking his helm, optics flickering down into deeper processing. His tank churned and core tempted. Damn, it was all nearly sickening. “This is all because I went to Kaon without your permission, wasn’t it?”

“There are more reasons than that alone,” Optimus verified.

“Then what are they?” Ratchet stepped forward, his field pushing against Prime’s, and not in the kindest of ways. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

Optimus Prime was just as patient as Orion Pax was. He waited until Ratchet’s spout faded in the slightest before he felt it was safe to speak up again. “I was told that you took them to your old clinic. There were a lot of sites that rose up from the past, wasn’t there? I think they were what throttled your spark. Though I can’t expect to fully understand, I can see what a bond does to a mech whose conjunx is standing with the other faction, who’s standing over the opposing faction. You know what Megatron’s done, and I know you try and hide what you can but it’s tearing you apart, and once it’s done with you it’ll only be your end. I don’t want that, Ratchet. I wish you could understand why I have to do this.”

Ratchet was quiet, taking every word and reason to his spark and processing what was left of his options. Optimus took his silence as submission and so reached out to lay his hand on him once more.

“It’d be an honor for Delphi to receive my CMO. The medics there could all learn a lot from you,” Optimus assured. “Please, Ratchet, take this as an opportunity and not a sentence.”

After losing Megatron and then having to give up his son, all that was left for Ratchet to lean on were his friends. When the war thickened and when desperation even struck Sentinel Prime’s forces, Ratchet chose his side and willingly took up the Autobot sigil; just as his friends had. Alongside his friends he defended the cause with his spark and hands, even as Thunderclash and Pharma were sent farther away, Ratchet got the opportunity to remain close to Orion and Jazz. And on that fateful day when Sentinel’s wounds took their toll and he descended the Matrix of Leadership to Orion, Ratchet furthered his resolve for the Autobot faction.

Ratchet was grateful for helping in any way he could. If it all meant the ones he cared most for were still functioning because of his endeavors then he’d continue to serve. But these lifelines were stretching to the point they might as well snap. Being sent away from the likes of Optimus and Jazz wasn’t sitting well with Ratchet and as the Prime left him over this final command, Ratchet couldn’t manage to tank the orders.

The orders for his staff to prep a shuttle for him came over Ratchet’s helm, likely due to the reason of his reluctance to give such orders to his assistants. He sat in his office for quite some time, refusing to move even as the space emptied under the busy servos of his fellow orderlies. When the room was all stripped to frame and structure, Ratchet finally came to the realization he was going to leave soon, very soon.

“You’re blast off’s in six cycles, Ratch.” In came Ironhide, scanning over the empty room and then zoning into the sole ‘bot seated in the middle of said emptiness. “You don’t look anywhere near as ready for the trip.”

Glazed optics finally pulled away from dampened processors to take in the guest. Ratchet wanted to politely welcome the old mech, but he couldn’t manage a friendly smile nor adequate greeting. Instead, he shifted in his seat and sounded a sigh.

“The opportunity to distance myself from the frontlines is ideal.” Leaning forward, Ratchet splayed his red servos across a clean desk. All of his datapads, his columns of small projects were taken away, stored into the shuttle meant to carry him and the majority of his assistants to Messatine.

“But you don’t want to, right?” Ironhide was nodded, smiling even as he came closer and leaned against the desk, his field brushing Ratchet’s in understanding. “Then why don’t ya stay?”

Ratchet snorted, shaking his own helm. “It’s what Prime ordered. Says my spark’s in danger if I stay any longer.”

“You know, as much as I like the new kid in town, even I know there are times not to follow orders.” Ironhide leaned back, arms crossed, lips straight and contemplative. “Come on, we both know that Prime is still Orion underneath all that formality and rank. Can’t you just call him off? You two’ve been friends since your academy days. I doubt he’d try any court martial or detention if you stay.”

There was still time. Ratchet had contemplated having a final word with Optimus Prime in hopes to purge his departure from his mainframe. It’d be a last-ditch effort, but one worth fighting for. Ratchet really didn’t want to go and he knew more than just Ironhide knew this.

“I, personally, think it’s a damn mistake to do away with our Chief Medical Officer,” Ironhide voiced. “I mean, who’s Prime going to set in your place? First Aid? Minerva? I’d rather my chassis be underneath Wheeljack than those two any day.”

Ratchet chuckled at the extreme idea, but as he let the silly image set in he began to realize that that just might become a reality, one he couldn’t let happen and that the Autobots shouldn’t either. He was not only Prime’s Chief Medical Officer, but of the whole Cybertronian medical field. Delphi had plenty of skilled and able medibots, the frontline did not, and getting rid of a majority of them just to relieve a liable ‘bot should not be an excuse.

Looking at Ironhide, Ratchet’s optics flashed. “Where is Optimus?”

There was a smile of encouragement that spread across the old mech’s face plates. He shifted, jutting his thumb toward the door. “He’s with Wheeljack. Him and the kid just got back from a scavenger hunt with a few energy conductors in tow. I don’t think Prime’s going to be sending out any more mecha.”

“Then the launch will be coming sooner than we think.” Ratchet processed what he was told and within the next astrosecond he stood from his chair, moved past Ironhide, and left his cleared office altogether.

Having marched this beaten path before, Ratchet let his subconscious lead him toward Optimus’s command station. On his way there he ran into Jazz.

“Hey, Ratch, what’re ya doing in these parts? You’ve got a shuttle to catch.” Before Ratchet could get annoyed at Jazz’s own acceptance of his sentence the base shuttered and the lighting flickered. The shake even startled the Third in Command who twisted and gapped. “Whoa, that didn’t feel like Wheeljack’s daily laboratory rumble!”

Another shutter and then the hallways lit up red. With a quick glance back toward Ratchet, Jazz silenced any further questions on the presented topic and instead took off down the corridor with the medibot on his heels. When the two skidded to a halt into the command center, the monitors surrounding easily displayed the cause of the sounding alarms.

“Decepticons?” Jazz immediately dashed toward the panels, dialing into the higher levels for immediate status reports and from his irate face it wasn’t hard to discern their distress as their base was breached. “Prime! Levels one, two, and four are confirming fire. Casualties are mounting!”

At the center stood Optimus Prime, almost unreadable if not for the bright light in his optics. In particular he was glaring at the visual of Level 1 where Prowl and his force was taking heavy fire and one by one the Decepticons seeped in, overwhelming and pushing past to slide into the lower levels. Their intent was to destroy, just as it had always been.

“Megatron’s forced our hand.” Optimus’s fists were clenched. He turned toward Sideswipe, Grappler and Hoist. “Get the ship ready. We leave within the cycle.”

Sideswipe wasn’t the only one who gapped at the command. “But, Prime, we don’t have everything loaded yet and Wheeljack’s still installing the generators. It may take over ten more cycles until the Ark’s even ready for travel.”

As honest as it was, Optimus’s reaction proved he hadn’t wanted to hear those words from the mech. He turned and took a step closer, peering down at Sideswipe. “Then inform Wheeljack of the newly allotted time and prepare the ship.” There wasn’t need to say anything more and with a swift motion, Optimus pulled out his blaster from his subspace, moving out of the room and toward the lifts. Immediately Jazz and Brawn and Hound fell in line with him, all battle-ready.

Ratchet followed and was the mech responsible for the lift’s delay. Holding the control lever, Ratchet almost flinched at Optimus’s glare. Almost.

“Optimus, wait!”

“Ratchet, you need to be concerned about gathering your staff and departing on Unitrex-1. Launch has been unfortunately moved closer. Don’t make me have to tell you again when I return.” Optimus moved and placed his hand over Ratchet’s. He was ready to pull him off of the control.

“Damn it, Optimus, there are wounded up there!” Ratchet pushed closer in challenge. “What are you going to do when you rescue them? Shove them all with us to patch up on our way to Delphi? You need those mecha with you on the Ark and you need me to oversee their recovery. Don’t send me away, Optimus. You need me, and so do the others.”

The standoff was quiet, bated, and rough. As Optimus glared in demand for submission, so too did Ratchet return the gaze, daring for physical altercation because that was going to be the only way he’d be put on any other vessel besides the Ark.

“Prime.” It was Jazz. “They need us. Prowl’s already reported ten more down.” He nodded toward Ratchet. “Sometimes plans have to change. You know we’re going to need Ratchet.”

There was a shift in the Prime, one to where he pulled Ratchet’s hand away from the lever. In that moment, Ratchet felt his spark swirl in discomfort, at the thought of never seeing these dear friends again.

Just as Optimus pushed the lever to pull the lift he looked to Ratchet and said, “Prepare the Ark’s medbay. You and your assistants are going to have your servos full in a few moments.”

As soon as Optimus and the others were out of sight and audio another shock rocked the base. Ratchet pulled himself out of his surprise and turned to call back his staff, gathering what they could from their intended vessel and moving it all onto the Ark. The golden ship was nowhere near ready when Optimus Prime and the rest of the Autobots returned dragging the wounded behind, and neither was Ratchet or his designated medical bay, but he did what he could as the Ark warmed for launch.

“Lay him down over here!” Ratchet demanded as his staff stumbled under the rumble of the Ark as its turbines reared and generators whirled. The wounded were moaning and groaning and screaming and Ratchet was lucky that the resent installation of the gravity placers on the mediberths were updated and functioning properly because performing surgery during takeoff would have been near impossible without it.

Aside from the fading sparks in Ratchet’s servos there was the realization that Cybertron was now a fading distance behind them, and that he may never see his home planet again. The attached memories, both good and bad, racked Ratchet’s tank and with the support from his persistent staff, he was able to push his home-sickness down and set his focus on the ones who needed it.

However, leaving a planet behind wasn’t as jarring as a sieged ship being boarded. They’d been followed, even through the rain of asteroids. Ratchet and the others gasped at the shake of exploding charges and the overhelm shouts from commanders on both factions.

“Decepticons are on the Ark!” Already traumatized from the previous excursion, Ratchet watched as the mess of patients uttered in terror, in turn pulling his assistants into the hysteria.

It was easy to shake, it was easy to want to hide and cower away. What was hard was grabbing the emergency blasters stored just next to the line defibrillators and cocking the gun toward the medical ward doors where unfamiliar vocals were heard. Harder still was taking aim and firing at fellow Cybertronians who had been mistaken enough to believe the stored away medibots were defenseless.

Even as the startle died, the fear remained prevalent. Turning, Ratchet nodded to the other weapons. “Guard yourself, there’s likely to be more.”

Gawks and gaps were what Ratchet left behind as he ran out of the ward toward the louder course of the destruction. What he found in the cockpit was an all-out struggle for control of the Ark. Starscream and his seekers were present, Soundwave and his minicons, and even Megatron himself was there in the throes of the chaos.

The fights to the death from previous clashes were controlled in spacious fields or even sectors. Their struggle then was confined and would tear the Ark to shreds if one side didn’t stamp down the other, and that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.

Ratchet’s decision to offer tactical assistance was instantly met with a downfall as the strong hands of Soundwave pushed him into the Ark’s compute panel. The surge rattled Ratchet’s interior frame from his peding to his denta. It took him more than a moment to align his sensors and once he had his frame hit the flooring again and the tight hands constricting his neck cabling belonged to none other than Thundercracker.

 “There you are, medic.” Thundercracker grit his denta in frustration and absolute hate. He shook Ratchet who struggled underneath his weight. “I’m going to enjoy this, and after I’m done I’ll be considered a hero: the one who finally liberated our leader!”

Just as thumb digits dug into Ratchet’s voice module the seeker lurched forward and let out a cry. There was absolute agony scrawled across his face plates as he slid off of him, rolling onto his scorched back plates. Ratchet’s wide optics stuttered at the sight before twisting to see Megatron’s canon still sizzling.

There was irritation, upset, and livid anger, but most of those emotions were directed toward the writhing seeker. “Fools! Don’t waste your time with them. Get control of the ship!”

In Megatron’s struggle to rein in his mecha, Optimus had maneuvered around and lunged at the silver mech, both tumbling over sensitive controls while the ship swayed and lurched. When the turbulence was prevalent that it wasn’t from the skirmish onboard both Autobots and Decepticons turned their attentions away from slaughtering the other.

“What’s happening?!” Optimus turned away from Megatron, finally looking over toward the monitors, toward the shifting scenery outside.

“G-force is—dragging us down!” Ratchet could have sworn he heard Prowl shout out. And from that confirmation and the sudden tip the ark made into an unknown atmosphere, it was clear the vessel was nearing to crash.

The magnetic junction of the tractor beams snapped one by one, and as soon as the last junction severed the Ark nosedived and those trapped inside jostled around. It was Optimus who managed to keep his holding, inching his way back toward the throttle. Ratchet was clinging onto the arm of the co-pilot’s chair when he watched his leader take hold of the control, but even as the Prime pulled on it the quickening decline of the vessel made the grab useless.

Optimus’s optics were wide. “We’re out of control!”

Past swirling plumes of clouded atmosphere the terrain of the planet revealed itself. Mounds of rock littered every sector, shoots of smoke shot up from spouts. These mountains were everywhere and it was right into the belly of one that the Ark couldn’t be pulled away from.

A crash was eminent and possibly the death of them all. There was no time to break for an escape pod. No time to even unlatch emergency locks.

If the war was going to end, then how fitting it would be just like that; with both sides clinging to one another, facing extinguishment together.

The moment of impact was fascinating as it was horrifying. The entire ship crunched under the weight of the built up terrain. Turbines imploded and whole sections were rippled asunder. And right there in the control deck, both Autobot and Decepticon saw and felt everything.

The impact jostled those onboard to offlinement and those lucky into stasis. Limbs vibrated right off frames and systems misaligned in the mayhem. Ratchet remembers the force knocking him back. He hit something, or likely someone because just as soon as another shake overtook the colliding ship it pushed him and the ‘bot he had rammed into further away near the door.

Hearing creaks and crunches all around disrupted Ratchet’s senses to the point he couldn’t tell which were his wounds and which were another’s. That was when he felt arms wind around him, strong ones. In the turmoil of it all, Ratchet didn’t feel the suffocation he expected, instead those arms braced him, holding him as the ship lodged itself further into the mountain, folding itself in further.

The last violent rock Ratchet recalled had been so rough that he tipped over, as had the one whose arms were around him. They both rolled until they slid to the center of the room, into the mess of the dismembered others. As frightened as Ratchet was, the chassis over his held a familiarity about it, more so that spark inside that was reaching out, calming him in the surrounding atrophy. And in turn, Ratchet felt it take comfort from him.

As optics faded, Ratchet was at least glad to be content in this end, something he never thought he’d ever find again.

. . .

The first visage that Megatron onlined to was the concerned features of Skywarp.

“Megatron, my leader. We’re alive again!”

It took a moment for his systems to boot correctly and his levels to balance. His stabilizers were one of the last compartments to correct itself as he stood and reformed his bearings. Skywarp was there to steady him and encourage his recovery, but aside from his enthusiastic follower, Megatron took another moment to take in the carnage around him.

The sheer trauma from the crash had jostled his sensors to the point Megatron was having a hard time understanding why he was there as well as why Autobot frames were scattered amongst Decepticon hulls. The Autobot’s intelligence system seemed to pick up on this and began sounding off frequencies to align Megatron’s frayed memory core.

There was a rush of an intent to follow, to chase, to capture and board. Megatron’s arm twitched with the familiar weight of his ion canon. Memories skittered out of the faces he offlined. Grinding denta then felt the ghost of spat commands, of infuriation.

Lastly, Megatron recollected the fear.

The crash. Megatron remembered it all. As his arms twitched he looked at them, they bent as if to cradle. They had, hadn’t they?

Scarlet optics looked over to where Skywarp had dragged him from. A familiar white and red form lay in the exact spot Megatron had rested for who-knows-how-long. Ratchet had fallen, tossed around just as every mech inside had been. When he was thrown close, Megatron instinctively reached out, winding around him to take whatever further damage the medibot would retain for himself. It was how Megatron fell into stasis; with the medibot pulled against him, chassis to chassis, spark to spark, taking comfort in knowing that if that was their end then at least they would meet it beside one another.

With his bearings stabilized, Megatron took his first steps. Each one leveled out. He came to a stop beside the place he had lain stasis for years, where Ratchet still laid.

Leaning down, Megatron pressed a hand against the medic’s vertebrae cabling. There was a subtle reaction from the energon still flowing. Ratchet still functioned.

Relief phased over him and when Megatron turned his gaze to look at the other mecha around, especially the Autobots, the sense of urgency returned to his field. Standing, Megatron nodded to Skywarp and said, “Quickly, we must revive the other Decepticons.”

As soon as the others were brought back online they picked up the task of piecing their brethren together again. Megatron was surprised by how many actually managed to survive the crash, however their enthusiasm over their early booted circumstance in comparison to the Autobots and how they went about said celebration did not at all surprise the Decepticon leader.

Like the aftermath of victory, the Decepticon troops raided the ship’s storage, taking whatever they wanted. After their systems sung with rejuvenation they turned to disperse the extra energy surges on their unfortunate counterparts. Further decimation and desecration of the Autobot offline frames fell into the Decepticon’s victory schedule and while they wasted their time enjoying such activities, Megatron moved away from it all.

No one questioned him when he took up the Autobot’s medic. No one even turned an optic when Megatron vanished into the halls. Too many were caught up in their enemy mockery and drunkenness.

It was back toward the medbay where Megatron went. The doors were broken, not from the crash but a previous breech. Inside the damage was no doubt the result of the crash. There were other medibots, some offline, but many stasis like a majority of the ship’s crew. However, that couldn’t be said for the obvious patients scattered around. Megatron counted every single one offline, their wounds made them less durable and vulnerable in the madness of the landing, but none of that really mattered to him.

This place was quiet and would only go untouched by his rowdy mecha in the command deck. Coming over to one of the berths, Megatron shoved the empty hull off and there he laid Ratchet down. Megatron did what he could for the ligaments that hung by mere wiring, laying the medic down in such a way to attain comfort.

Taking those red hands, Megatron laid them atop Ratchet’s chassis, right below that red mark. Megatron abhorred the sight of it, yet found that, in a way, it suited the doctor. Turning his gaze away from the irritable opposing sigil, Megatron laid his optics upon his familiar face. Even in emergency stasis, he looked simply booted down, almost peaceful. A beautiful sight, one Megatron assured himself he would lock into his memory logs.

While sitting there, Megatron was overcome with the urgency to wake the medic, so that he could speak to him and so that Ratchet could speak to him back. He missed his voice, he missed his touch, he missed his simple presence. And Megatron had so much to say to him, he had for some time but the opportunities never presented a feasible time to accomplish such a goal . . . just like right then.

No. It was for the best that Ratchet remained stasis. It was all easier; for the both of them.

When the sound of inner fighting echoed from down the hallway, Megatron understood the necessity to leave and round up his quarreling mecha who were now sober enough to pull their attention away from the unconscious and toward factional grudges. As he pulled away, he noticed the reluctance of his hands, the ones clasping rouge servos. Megatron looked at them accusingly, but found no will to punish them for holding onto something so precious. A little more time was allowed to detach himself and take in the memory of the comfort he felt by being so close to his conjunx.

Parting was rough, but Megatron moved that ache inside his spark chamber to focus on smacking senses into his forces. It didn’t take him long to beat them into submission and order them away from the Autobots and their ship. Heading outside into the unknown territory of the planet was surreal. The very landscape held similarities to what they had first seen of it, but there were obvious changes in both growth and corrosion.

“Much time has passed,” Megatron commented. It was obvious. Even the Autobot’s ship computer hadn’t lied when it confirmed the recorded time passage. “We are on a planet far from Cybertron, but our mission has not changed.” Even after the passed millennia, their home world held the highest priority.

“How do we know Cybertron exists?” Megatron turned to look at Skywarp. His worry wasn’t just his own. Megatron could see this fear in many optics around him. However, he believed that if Cybertron could survive the scourge that they and the Autobots wrought on it in their struggle over it then it could survive a few more millennia.

“It must exist,” Megatron assured. “And if this land is filled with resources, we shall return home with the power to build the ultimate weapon and conquer the universe.” It’s what they needed to hear to keep them going from such a long distance from home. Their stamina was needed because there was a high likelihood that the collection of these raw materials could take longer time than expected, and they needed to persevere if they were ever going to be able to return home one day.

The whine of sizzling charges turned Megatron’s attention away from ushering his mecha off toward his begrudging Second in Command. “Starscream!”

The aerial turned, frown still on his face and a shrug on his shoulder struts. “I’m just saying goodbye.”

Megatron pressed his lips into a thin line. “Save your energy. The Autobots have taken their last flight.”

This was the last time he would look at the shuttle, well, at least until it was time to return. Megatron turned his optics away, keeping his field to himself and his composure in line. His duty then was to lead, to lead his mecha away to energy sources and then to Cybertron.

Their mission would prove long and tedious but valuable in the end. Megatron assured his mecha and he assured himself. But it was also to himself that he memorized the longitude and latitude of the location where the Autobots rested because when this planet was picked dry, when Cybertron was overflowing with fountains of energon once more, then Megatron would return and he’d come for his conjunx, knowing he’d still be there where he left him as they all had been for millions of years before. This time Megatron would be strong enough to keep him beside him.

Amongst Starscream’s insistent fire on the mountain range if just to bury the Autobots further into the rock, Megatron let his belief in a future reunion spur him to reach out to the one he knew couldn’t hear him, much less feel him in stasis, for a final message.

 _Wait for me_.


End file.
